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Chapter Text

The blacktop was melting under the weight of tour buses, scattered beer cans, and the too-sweet scent of sunscreen and sweat as bodies mingled through the crowds. He was already pissed off, dragging boxes of shirts out of the van.

Anthony wasn’t even sure what possessed him to take this job, but when the-band-who-must-not-be-named – no, seriously, they went by No Use for a Name – asked him to work the merch stand, as a favour to the uncle of a friend of a friend, all he heard were the words “Warped Tour” and immediately agreed. It wasn’t glamourous, but it paid, which was the point—and, as a result, he got free access to shows and a front-seat view of all the Warped Tour chaos. Anthony would be part of the story, part of the lore—it felt magical.

Well, it felt magical for all of ten seconds, until he was actually on the road and discovered that he wasn’t actually fond of his musically inclined bosses.

Frustration was rife from the moment he stepped off the bus.

It certainly didn’t help that, as he was attempting to set up the merch stand for whatever city the tour was playing today – it took maybe three days before Anthony felt like he was already losing track of time – some asshole shoved an entire box of cymbals in the way.

“Hey, asshole,” he began, echoing the thoughts in his head, “you plan on moving that, or do I get to start throwing shit?”

He hated the way his breath caught in his throat when said asshole turned around to face him, shit-eating grin high on his lips and sweaty, tousled hair falling about the sides of his head. He looked every part the name that Anthony had given him, like he would just throw you the middle finger and laugh if you attempted to ask him for help. What Anthony hated the most, though, was the fact that he was hot.

Anthony was doing his best not to stare at the asshole’s sweaty, shirtless chest as he turned that grin on him, looking like an absolute menace. “You selling scented candles or something?” he asked. “Didn’t realize I needed a permit to breath near your booth.”

“This is merch, not s storage locker,” Anthony told him, a huff on the tip of his tongue. “Try respecting the people who actually work on this tour.”

“Oh, is that what this is? You want a trophy for folding tee shirts?”

If he could, Anthony would wring his neck.

Which was why, instead, as a couple of the bands and crew found places to rest for the night, no stop occurring the next day as the parade of buses moved onto the next state, Anthony found himself downing cup after cup of cheap beer…followed by the asshole’s tongue, not quite sure who had put their mouth on the other, but neither willing to stop. Teeth clashed, backs hit stucco outside the motel pool, and when the asshole in question pushed him up against the wall and bit his bottom lip, Anthony didn’t think he could hate him more.

So, naturally, he let him.

Anthony hates his face. He hates his fucking shit-eating grin. He hates how badly he wants to see him again.

It didn’t take long for Anthony to discover who, exactly, the asshole was—he might have been ignorant upon their first meeting, but it was hard to miss when that short little gremlin wound up at Thursday’s merch table and started signing autographs.

And now, as Anthony stood in the sweltering heat, feeling the sweat drip down his brow and remind him of just how badly he could use a decent shower – another glorious facet of life on the road, he was discovering this summer – Tucker Rule stands halfway across the dusty fairgrounds, drumsticks in his back pocket, laughing at something that Geoff Rickly could not possibly have made that hilarious.

Just the sound of his laugh made Anthony’s jaw clench.

He didn’t think it could get any worse until Tucker spotted him, smirk rising to his lips almost immediately as he exclaimed, “Hey, it’s the merch cop!”

Ignore ignore ignore.

“You gonna write me another citation for loitering?” came the absolutely infuriating attempt at wit from the musician, the remark made as though he was making a casual joke between friends, but the fire in his eyes suggesting otherwise. Anthony hated how much he wanted to bite that smile off the drummer’s face, to take his hands and pin them to the wall, to make Tucker pin him to the merch table and fuck him all over every carefully folded shirt—their shared bodily fluids would probably be an improvement over the designs for this year.

“Depends,” Anthony began instead, wiping the sweat from his neck and attempting an air of nonchalance to throw any onlookers off the scent of his libido. “You still leaving your crap all over other people’s spaces?”

Tucker tilted his head, insufferable grin somehow growing as the drummer approached. “Aw, come on. You weren’t really mad about that.”

His breath hitched as Tucker leaned in close and added, “You just needed a reason to talk to me.”

It hadn’t been true, then—Anthony had no idea who he was besides the body and boxes who were in his fucking way. But he hated the way the words sat between them, a challenge, because now was a different story—now that he had felt Tucker’s mouth against his, Tucker’s hands on his skin, the way the drummer moaned around his cock as he sucked Anthony dry…no, he still wouldn’t want to be caught dead talking to him.

So, he scoffed. “Trust me, I’d rather get heat stroke.”

“Is that what we’re calling it now?”

Anthony doesn’t punch him, despite the tension in his hands growing so intensely that his palms feel as though they’re burning. He doesn’t kiss him either, despite that Tucker’s mouth is right there and practically begging for Anthony to show him who’s boss.

He does turn around and does his best to ignore the jibes coming from the drummer that Anthony doesn’t have the balls for this tour.

Soaked to the bone in sweat, every inch of him aching, Anthony was starting to regret having taken this job. Well, he had been well past starting for a week now – he never realized just how difficult life on the road would be, and he certainly didn’t envy the musicians who spent most of their year doing this—or their crew, for that matter – but, yet again, he contemplated with himself whether this was worth it. He was making more than he did at Starbucks, after all. And he was now part of the legend that was Warped Tour.

But he was also besieged by barking laughs and all-too-knowing eyes at every turn, like those currently facing him from the drummer who was leaning against the fence like a goddamn extra in a shitty music video, a beer dangling from his fingers.

“I thought you hated me,” he said casually as Anthony attempted to ignore him.

It was too bad that ignoring him was easier said than done, especially when Anthony always had to have the last word. Like, “I do.”

“So why do you keep showing up?”

He says it as though Anthony was the one who approached him, as though Tucker was not the one who sought him out while Anthony was doing his fucking job. So, Anthony couldn’t help but spin on him, demanding, “Why do you?”

The shrug was insufferable. Everything about it was insufferable. The way he said, “Maybe I like getting yelled at,” as thought it was a legitimate reason – and as though nobody else but Anthony could provide such a service to him – was even more insufferable. And the worst part, as always, was that it was practically insatiable—that it only made Anthony want to do that and more, to show Tucker what being yelled at could be.

The man must be a fucking masochist, he thinks. And says, aloud.

And, as always, the shit-eating grin that rose to the drummer’s lips made Anthony’s blood boil in all sorts of ways as Tucker responds, “You have no idea.”

It was fast and messy, and done half in shadow—Anthony’s teeth sunk into Tucker’s shoulder, eliciting the most beautiful, pained cry from the smaller man as the drummer’s fingers dug bruises into Anthony’s hips. Anthony could feel more than he could hear as Tucker called him an asshole, mouth vibrating against his neck—his only response was to tell him to shut the fuck up as he bit Tucker’s bottom lip hard enough to make him gasp. Hands found waistbands in a frantic rush, and it’s over all too soon—or too late.

“You’re the worst,” Anthony mutters as they sit there, backs against the fence, breathing like the both of them just sprinted across a battlefield as explosions happened all around them. In some ways, perhaps they did—and the battle was far from over.

“You say that every time,” Tucker responds, sounding a little too proud of the fact.

No, this was just the beginning.

By the time August rolls around, they have been doing this song and dance too long to pretend that it’s just an accident. Every time Tucker passes by his tent, which was already far too many times than he reasonably should, he throws an insult Anthony’s way.

“Nice display. My grandma folds better than that.”

“You call that a shirt design? It looks like my band’s logo took a dump all over it.”

“Holy fucking eyeliner. Is that supposed to distract from your face?”

Anthony gave it back just as good every time, with jabs about people actually wanting to wear his band’s merch (which was probably a lie), questions about Tucker’s drumming skills (which he couldn’t say much about, because the man actually was a good drummer), even something about Hot Topic hiring drum techs—not that Tucker fit into the Hot Topic mold, but what else was Anthony supposed to say about the eyeliner comment?

But, somehow, it always ended the same—a door slamming, someone’s back hitting a bus wall, Anthony’s hands in his sweaty hair, Tucker’s breath on Anthony’s neck, hands fisting in shirts and voices cracking on half-broken moans.

And, always, Anthony woke up alone, back to pretending in the daylight—pretending he doesn’t notice the bruises, the fingerprints, the aching.

This isn’t love. It’s not even lust, he tells himself each time.

It’s just Warped Tour. Just summer.

The house smelled like beer and sweat and something vaguely herbal that Anthony doesn’t ask about—and certainly doesn’t partake in, if anyone asks. Bands and crew crammed into every corner, from the porch to the couch to the hallway. Someone might have even passed out in the bathtub—Anthony was pretty sure he heard something from behind the shower curtain when he took a piss, but was too busy focusing on his flow to investigate. Someone was definitely puking in the sink beside him, though—he couldn’t miss that.

He was making an escape toward the laundry room, half-drunk and exhausted, to give himself a moment to breathe that the onslaught began.

“Miss me?” Tucker asked, smug and flushed and swaying on his feet.

Anthony hated how charming he looked, even with that asshole grin and the stench of too much beer mixed with too many cigarettes. He especially hated that, in his own inebriated state, he was struggling not to agree with the smaller man.

Instead, Anthony manages to retort, “I was having a perfectly good time not being near you.”

“You’re always prettier when you lie.”

The argument was on his tongue, but it was replaced with Tucker’s before he could give it voice. Anthony shouldn’t let Tucker’s hands wander under the thin fabric of his shirt, shouldn’t follow him down the hallway, shouldn’t let Tucker pull him into the garage, definitely shouldn’t let him push Anthony up against the dusty old dryer and continue to kiss him like he was absolutely mad about it. But he does.

It's rougher, needier—Tucker’s hands are in his belt loops like he might actually fall if he lets go, which might have been true. Anthony bit his neck harder than usual, but Tucker doesn’t tell him to stop—no, in fact, Tucker says something to the opposite of that.

And then—voices.

The two of them freeze, Anthony’s pulse hammering like he just ran a marathon.

“Shit,” Tucker hisses, pulling away as though Anthony’s skin burned beneath his fingertips, adding, “That’s Geoff.”

That has Anthony moving, too—it would be one thing to be caught by some other drunk crew member, like the guitar tech of a band neither of them even remembers seeing on the tour. It would be a different story altogether to have Geoff fucking Rickly walk into the room with Tucker’s hands in Anthony’s pants, rather than shoving him behind a shelf of boxes before smoothing down his shirt. Even Anthony would not buy that Tucker wasn’t just grinding against someone in a stranger’s garage, but, hey—points for effort.

“Tuck?” Geoff’s voice is easy, curious, floaty. Oh, he was definitely high. “Someone said you disappeared with a merch guy?” There was also confusion there.

Anthony’s heart dropped so fast, he almost choked.

Tucker laughs almost too loud as he gives the most obvious cover up in the history of cover ups. “Yeah, I…just needed to piss in peace,” he said, as though there was a bathroom anywhere near the laundry room. “You seen that bathroom line?”

Anthony couldn’t see everything – it was best if the boxes did their job to hide him from the other musician’s view – but he could tell in the vocalist’s tone as he reminded Tucker that they were heading out soon that he didn’t quite believe him, either. With any luck, Geoff would be too intoxicated by morning to remember that the conversation even happened—with any luck, Anthony would be too hungover by morning to ever want to do this again.

The door closes and the footsteps fade behind it. Anthony doesn’t move. Neither does Tucker. Then—“That was close.”

Anthony couldn’t help but shove the drummer, hard as he hissed, “You almost got us caught!” Because it was far easier to blame Tucker and his stupid fucking moans and his atrocious lying skills than take any responsibility for whatever had just happened.

Tucker frowned at him. “I didn’t plan this, okay? I just—”

“You just couldn’t help yourself?”

The words were out of his mouth before he realized he had even thought them. Tucker had no response for him, and Anthony didn’t bother to push him—it would be a little hypocritical, considering that he couldn’t very well help himself, either. He could, however, keep himself from following as Tucker returned to the rest of the house, waiting a full minute before doing the same so it wouldn’t look like they had just come together. That was one thing they hadn’t managed, actually—thanks to Geoff’s incredible timing.

Anthony avoids Tucker for the rest of the night. But, later, in the bus, when he touches the tender mark the drummer left on his neck, his stomach twists and turns into this strange, awful feeling he’s long since stopped trying to explain.

They have made it into some sort of game of hate, a competition of barbs and bites. But now there was something else creeping in—fear.

And, maybe, curiosity.

But Warped Tour had come to a close, so Anthony was saved from having to explore that.

Chapter Text

How did he wind up back here?

Anthony swore, after the previous year, that he would never do it again. Warped Tour had been much different than he expected, and he was not keen to return—not to work, anyway. He might have returned as a guest if Thursday hadn’t been on the bill. But he made friends the previous summer, networked around the Warped scene, so, naturally, the tour manager of one of the other bands gave him a call and asked for his services.

And, well, how could Anthony say no? Especially when his parents were being a little, well, annoying about his decision not to go to college—it wasn’t that he wanted to work at Starbucks forever, but he also had no interest in higher education.

He also had no interest in him. Not that he had thought about him, because he hadn’t.

That’s what Anthony told himself, anyway.

Not during the drive across the country, not when his new band’s shirts arrived late and he imagined the way he might laugh in Anthony’s direction, making some sort of comment about not even being able to do merch right. But when Anthony saw Tucker standing across from him, barefoot and drenched with sweat, a hand to his brow as though blocking the sun to give him a better view of Anthony—well. There was only so much lying Anthony could do to himself, and he hated how Tucker looked even hotter this year.

His hair was longer. His grin was sharper. And when he sets his eyes on Anthony, it’s as though they were right back where they started.

“Well, well, if it isn’t the prince of poorly folded band tees,” he quipped.

Anthony, as usual, gave it as good as he got it. He let a smirk rise to his own lips, more practiced in the execution than he might have been the previous summer, as he asked, “You still playing those drums like they owe you money?”

It was absolutely insufferable the way Tucker’s smirk grew as he quipped, “Only when I want the merch guys to come crawling back.” But Anthony didn’t have the time to think up a comeback before the asshole turned around, sweaty shorts practically clinging to his round ass as he walked away, leaving Anthony stewing. That didn’t stop him, of course, from throwing up a finger, anyway—it was the thought that counted.

As though the drummer had eyes in the back of his head, Tucker turned once more and winked.

Oh, it was on.

All Anthony wanted was a soda. Hell, he’d go for a beer. Anything to quench his thirst as the muggy air threatened to suffocate him where he stood.

“Come to critique the set? Or just hoping I’d be sweaty?”

If looks could kill, well, Anthony would probably still fail at that task, because he moment his eyes fell on the quite sweaty, indeed drummer, he felt everything inside his body stop, seizing like the engine in the bus only a couple days prior.

He hated the way his eyes zeroed in on every drop of condensation sliding down the man’s naked chest, following them as they made their way down Tucker’s stomach and toward the far-too-low waistband of his shorts. He hated the way Tucker smirked at him as his eyes snapped back up to his face, evidently aware of exactly what Anthony had been staring at—and certainly not about to let him forget it, either, as the drummer tossed his damp towel over his shoulder and gave Anthony a smug, infuriating once-over.

“Just came to remind you that your fills still sound like you’re putting the drums out of their misery,” Anthony quipped back.

Tucker raised an eyebrow. Fuck.

“You always this mouthy before I fuck you?” the drummer began. Anthony’s breath hitched as Tucker closed the space between them like it was practically nothing. “Or,” he continued, “is that just a special treat for me?”

It’s desperate, violent the way Anthony lunges at him, teeth clashing—and Tucker appeared to be in the same state, as though the both of them had been starved for something and too proud to admit it. Anthony dragged him into a dark corner off the side of the stage, tugging his pants open as though he had done it a hundred times (not quite too far off the mark), and this time – this time – it’s not just frantic. It’s familiar.

And that scared the fuck out of Anthony as he tore the orgasm right from Tucker’s throat.

By the time they were a couple weeks into the tour, it had become muscle memory. They would exchange insults in the morning – “Your eyeliner’s crooked,” “Your drumming is,” – followed by feverish touches in the heat of the night.

Pressed between boxes in the trailer, mouths crashing together behind the catering tent, in the cab of a truck as it poured rain outside.

One time, Tucker rested his forehead against Anthony’s like he meant it.

But no softness would follow during the day.

No hand on Anthony’s back as he passed, no stolen looks across parking lots, no admittance, no vulnerability. Anthony would whisper, “You’re a mistake,” against Tucker’s throat, not sure whether he was trying to convince the drummer or himself, and Tucker would respond, breath heavy and hand still tangled in Anthony’s hair, “Yeah, you too.” Deep down, Anthony knew that neither of them quite believed it anymore – even if he wasn’t quite willing to admit it out loud – but it was easier, safer to bury himself in ignorance.

Easier to pretend. Easier to act like it was still hate—not that it wasn’t, because Tucker still was an insufferable asshole who made Anthony’s blood boil under the scorching sun. But when it was just the two of them hidden in the shadows, no one to overhear them…

It was easier than admitting that Anthony had started to need this war between them.

It started with something stupid. Tucker brushed past the merch table, knocking over an entire crate of wristbands. Anthony wasn’t entirely certain it wasn’t on purpose, and can’t help but call him a, “clumsy fuckstick,” under his breath.

“You better watch your mouth,” Tucker warned him, clearly having heard his grumbling, “unless you want me to shut it for you.”

It escalated all too quickly—snarled insults, narrowed eyes, getting too close into one another’s space for two people who supposedly hated each other. Neither of them missed as Geoff uttered, “Jesus, I can’t tell whether you’re about to kiss or kill one another.”

Tucker laughed a little too loud. “In his dreams.”

Anthony snorted. “I wouldn’t kiss you if we were the last two humans left after the apocalypse.”

It was too obvious. Even he knew it was too obvious. Neither of them were casual enough to get away with it—especially when, this time, they didn’t have the benefit of an alcohol-fueled party to give them doubt. Anthony could already feel the sweat pooling at the back of his neck from the tension, Geoff’s eyes narrowing at the two of them—he needed to be anywhere else but here where Tucker’s fucking mouth continued to look so…

“That specific, huh?” is all that leaves Geoff’s mouth, but the raised eyebrow conveyed far more, making Anthony feel uneasy under his gaze. Even as Geoff took his leave, no more said between them, he couldn’t help looking back just once.

As though he was making sure Anthony and Tucker hadn’t given in—though was it was the kiss or the kill he expected to see, Anthony wondered.

Either way, his stomach twisted.

That feeling increased as Tucker approached him later and said, “Geoff knows.”

It was almost casual, almost like they were friends. Anthony wasn’t willing to admit that he had been watching Thursday’s set, but he had been in the vicinity of their stage—close enough to be spotted by Tucker as the drummer slipped to Anthony’s side in the dark like he hadn’t just been smashing his kit for the past forty-five minutes. His hair is sticking to his face, and he smells of sweat and metal and everything Anthony has started to crave—things Anthony will never be able to smell without thinking of Tucker again.

“I don’t think he knows knows,” the smaller man elaborated, “but he’s…watching. Asked me if I hate you or if we’re just bad at hiding things.”

Anthony can’t help the bitter laugh that escapes him. “And what did you say?”

He tried not to look disappointed when Tucker said, as though it was the most normal thing in the world, “That you’re an asshole I just like screaming at.” He wasn’t quite sure he was convincing as he responded, “Good cover.”

Tucker leans in closer, his mouth practically on Anthony’s ear as he whispers, “Didn’t say what kind of screaming.” He should push him away—tell him to get fucked and leave him alone, make the same sort of fiery jabs that fueled the both of them during the day. That would have been the safest course of action—to tell Tucker that whatever this was between them was over before someone else started to suspect something.

Instead, he kisses him hard enough to bruise.

Fuck ’em.

A rare day off during the tour means that the numerous buses pile into the series of motels down the interstate – those who can’t afford to spring for a luxury hotel, that is – and what a coincidence it would be that Anthony would wind up only doors down from the Thursday boys. He catches Tucker’s eye as he enters his room, shared between him and a couple other crew members for his band, though said roommates ditched him almost immediately to find the bar in the next town over. Anthony was almost tempted to join them—he was twenty-one now.

But, as he found himself sprawled on the bed, Tucker half on top of him and heavily flushed, he was glad that he chose to stay behind.

Yet, he can’t help himself as he asks, “Why do we keep doing this?”

Tucker doesn’t answer right away. Anthony wasn’t even sure if the drummer had heard him until the soft reply came against Anthony’s neck, imprinting on his skin, “Because it’s the only time I don’t want to punch something.”

Anthony huffs a laugh. “That’s romantic.”

He could hear the amusement – and, perhaps, a little fondness – in Tucker’s tone as the drummer responds, “Shut up.” And when his fingers find Anthony’s and just stays there, laced together for a minute longer than they should…well, Anthony wouldn’t tell anyone he didn’t pull away. He certainly wouldn’t tell anyone that he might have liked it—that maybe, in another universe, he might want Tucker to do it again. Regularly.

He also doesn’t notice that the curtain is wide open, and that, with Thursday’s room being mere doors away, there was every possibility that someone could walk by—that someone did walk by. A certain vocalist on a search for the probably broken ice machine.

Anthony is so caught up in the moment that he also doesn’t notice when Geoff sees them.

Or anyone else, for that matter.

It spreads the way things always do on tour: fast, hot, and laced with half-truths. Someone saw something. Someone heard Geoff mention Anthony’s name. By the time all the food trucks roll into the venue, Anthony cannot even take a piss without half a dozen eyes on him. Nobody says anything, not to him—but the lingering glances, malicious snickers behind hands, and heated conversations that mysteriously quiet the moment he walks by are indication enough that Anthony has found himself the center of unwanted attention.

He catches wind of some it as he does what he does every day and hauls boxes from the bus to the merch table. “Wait—him and Tucker? No way!”

“My bassist saw them. Said they were real close the other night.”

Motherfucker.

Anthony never wanted to be in the spotlight. Well, no—that wasn’t entirely true. There had been a time when he had considered being a musician himself, join a punk band where he could scream, sing, and write his heart and soul into his lyrics.

But that was but a fleeting memory at this point, and this is certainly not the attention Anthony had envisioned. His fists clenched and he could think of no other course of action than to stomp toward Thursday’s bus, ready to throw this out into the open—even he wasn’t sure what he intended by that, but he supposed he would find out the moment he saw Tucker’s goddamn fucking insufferable gorgeous face.

When he rounds the corner, Tucker is already there, practically holding court with a couple of tech guys, arms crossed as he laughed. “You think I’m fucking that guy?” he asked them, as though the idea was insane.

Loud. Sharp. Cold. And he kept going—“Jesus, I wouldn’t touch him with a stolen dick.”

Someone chuckles. Someone else mutters, “Damn.”

Anthony’s stomach drops out of him, everything under his skin hollowing out as though he had never even been there—like his body was naught but a shell and it had outlived its purpose, his soul a hermit crab seeking a new home.

And Tucker just keeps going. “Yeah, okay, we argue, but that’s just because he’s a smug little asshole who thinks he’s better than everyone.”

He stops moving entirely when he hears the last words drop from Tucker’s lips, a ruthless, cruel, “Always lurking around, probably hoping I’ll slip up and give him something to jerk off to.” Because what the actual fuck, man? Anthony thought that they had an understanding—that maybe they weren’t friends, but that there was…something between them. He hadn’t imagined the way Tucker curled into him the previous night, the way the drummer breathed against his neck, the way Tucker came to him like a moth to the flame.

It shouldn’t hurt, he reminds himself. Because he and Tucker never actually were anything but some sort of toxic combination, a couple of punching bags for one another’s dicks. It was never supposed to matter—it didn’t matter. It couldn’t matter.

Anthony watched as Tucker caught sight of him, face blanking, saying nothing.

One second. Two seconds.

He looks like he’s just about to open his mouth as Anthony swiftly turns, escaping to god knows where before anyone else could witness him fall apart.

Anthony skipped the show that night. Not that anyone would have been surprised, because he had never really made a habit of watching Thursday’s set – which he absolutely did not do – until recently. Instead, he hides in the bus, headphones in, eyes burning. He tried to tell himself Tucker had to do it, had to say those things. He would have done the same thing if their roles were reversed, so it shouldn’t have come as any sort of surprise.

But it doesn’t stop the ache—from the words, from the silence.

From the fact that somewhere along the way, Anthony had stopped hating him, and he hates that he still can’t hate him. Even now.

Chapter Text

He almost felt like a bit of a slut. What else would one call it to return to Warped Tour for the third year in a row with an entirely different band? Look, it wasn’t Anthony’s fault that he was likeable and fucking good at his job.

Selling shirts was an art, and Anthony had mastered it.

At least, that was what he told himself as he was elbows-deep in boxes, sweat already soaking through his shirt, trying not to lose his mind over a tangled mess of wristbands. It pays more than Starbucks, he reminded himself—that was his inner mantra all the way down the freeway, practically choking on the humidity in the poorly ventilated van. This time, he managed to hitch himself onto some up-and-comers who were not yet positioned to have their own bus, so the band and crew were crammed into two crowded vans.

It was his fault for thinking that things couldn’t possibly get any worse in that moment. Nothing good ever came from a thought like that.

“Well, if it isn’t my favourite emotionally repressed goblin,” came a voice he knew all too well.

Yeah, things could get worse.

He doesn’t bother to look up. The asshole doesn’t deserve even that much from Anthony as he says, tone as flat as a Diet Coke left out in the sun, still untangling bands, “I was really hoping you died over the winter.”

Anthony tries to tell himself that it’s not harsh. It’s just what they do—this is what they have done for the past two years, and what they will probably do until Anthony comes to his senses and stops taking job after job at Warped Tour. But when Tucker laughs, he can’t help the way his chest clenches, because goddamn—he had missed that laugh. It’s a little more cautious than Anthony remembered, but it was still Tucker.

And when he finally gave in and glanced over, catching sight of the drummer for the first time in about ten months…

He hated how fucking insatiable that asshole looked without even trying.

“Didn’t know you were still alive, Rule,” Anthony continues, saving himself at the last moment as he masked his expression with a smirk in what was probably record time—for him, at least. “Thought the tour might have buried your ass by now,” he added.

“Almost did,” Tucker responded with that stupid fucking grin that Anthony both hated and lo—hated at the same time. Goddamn it. “Miss me?”

The words that left Anthony’s mouth were, “Like herpes,” following a snort that suggested that missing Tucker was the absolute last thing he had done—because who in their right mind would miss an absolute pain in the ass? Well…Anthony was not going to answer that question, not even in his head. But as he catches the drummer’s gaze, just for a moment when they both happen to look in one another’s direction at the exact same moment, something flickered between them—a beat too long, something unsaid, something far too loud in the silence.

And then…it was gone.

At least, that was what he tried to tell himself, as his stomach continued to tumble throughout the rest of the day.

But when he found Tucker again after Thursday’s set, practiced as though they had done this song and dance a hundred times – not entirely untrue – his hand curled in the smaller man’s hair as though it never left, Tucker’s mouth on his neck like it was his birthright.

He didn’t mean for this to happen. He never means for this to happen. But Tucker found him just as he found Tucker, and it wasn’t as though he could say no—it wasn’t as though he wanted to say no. Anthony doesn’t say know to this, he doesn’t know how. And, this time, Tucker explores him inside and out, with a fierceness like he’s trying to erase the space between then and now—there’s desperation in it, less…less hate.

Tucker missed Anthony. It comes out louder unspoken than if he had given voice to the thought.

And, maybe – just maybe – Anthony had missed him, too.

Not that he would say as much.

Afterwards, when he is still trying to catch his breath, shirt half-off where one arm had come free, Tucker opens his mouth, the words spilling out tentatively as though he might crack beneath them: “I didn’t mean what I said. Last summer.”

Anthony doesn’t know what to say. He still wasn’t ready to forgive Tucker, and it was clear the drummer wasn’t ready to ask him to, either.

But when Tucker rested his hand on Anthony’s lower back for a moment longer than necessary, when he presses his forehead to Anthony’s in a way that feels like an apology, he couldn’t exactly tell the drummer to stop. It was…in some ways, it was too much—if he gave Tucker even a few more minutes, he was bound to become hot, uncomfortable, to feel as though he was suffocating under the warm breath in his face. At the same time, though, it felt like…not enough. Like he wanted to hold onto him and not let go. Not tonight.

That thought alone was enough to have Anthony shoving the drummer away, as though Tucker’s touch had burned through his skin. “Don’t get soft on me, Rule,” he said with a laugh, attempting to hide the feeling bubbling in his gut.

The grin isn’t so insufferable this time as the drummer responds, “Never.”

But he sees it in Tucker’s eyes. Something else. Something that neither of them, perhaps, was ready to admit aloud—or to themselves.

“You’ve been awfully quiet lately.”

Anthony doesn’t even need to look up to know that Tucker is leaning against the merch tent pole like he owns the place—he has long since developed a sense of the other man’s body language from the very tone of his voice. He also carefully ignores the footsteps on the grass as they trudge nearer, the hands on his table, the way Tucker’s hip slides into his line of sight as he tries not to let the drummer distract him from the cash he had to count.

Finally, he mutters, “Trying to savour the peace before you ruin it.”

The chuckle he received in response is dark. “Is that why you were glued to the My Chem guy all day?”

The speed at which Anthony’s head snapped up, eyes sharp, was enough to give him whiplash—maybe whiplash would explain the tension building up down his neck, shoulders, back as he asks, “What, are you keeping tabs now?”

Tucker’s smile falters just a bit, like Anthony has hit the nail on the head—Tucker was watching him, even when they weren’t together. Tucker was paying attention to the people Anthony talked to, hung out with, probably…well, it wasn’t as though he was doing anything with anyone besides the drummer, but he had no doubts that Tucker would notice that, too. And the way the smaller man says, “Just seems like you’re real quick to laugh at his jokes,” as though he’s trying to be casual, but feels like it’s an afront to him…

Anthony can’t help himself. “Jealous?”

“Of that eyeliner-wearing backup vocalist?” the drummer scoffs. “Never.”

Tucker doesn’t continue, but Anthony doesn’t miss the way his jaw tightens and his hands clench inside his pockets as he walks away. And, later that night, he certainly doesn’t miss the way Tucker kisses him harder than usual—leaving bruises like a signature.

The breeze was welcome in the humid summer air as the two of them leaned against a van door together, the band Anthony was with this year still not quite at the level where they could afford a bus. Anthony had already regained control of his breathing, only to fuck it right back up with the cigarette puffing between his teeth. He carefully avoided looking at Tucker until he exhaled another breath of smoke, nicotine releasing some of the tension.

“You gonna tell me what your problem is?” he asked, turning to the smaller man beside him, still standing there sweaty, shirtless, insufferably irresistible. “Or you just gonna keep fucking me like you’re mad at me?”

The drummer exhales hard, eyebrows raising beneath his damp hair. “Maybe I am mad.”

Anthony blinks. “Wait, what?”

“At you,” Tucker snaps, as though he had been bottling up this frustration for quite some time and Anthony was doing him no favours by being there. It was probably an accurate assessment, if he thought about it—Anthony himself had been experiencing all sorts of frustrations from the moment he first laid eyes on Tucker, and as this…thing continued to develop between them, he found himself growing more irritated by the day—at Tucker, at himself, at what could be, at what he might never have. He hated how much he craved it—all of it.

Tucker wasn’t done. “For being in my head when you shouldn’t be,” he continued. “For looking at other guys like…” It was the way his voice cracked, the way he quieted as he said, “like I don’t matter,” that caused Anthony to turn.

He had to stay strong. He couldn’t be vulnerable, he told himself, as he laughed and responded, trying his best to sound casual, “You don’t.”

But it still comes out wrong—too sharp, too desperate.

And when Tucker flinches as though Anthony had hit him, he wants to take it back.

Instead, he shoves Tucker against the van and kisses him roughly, like reigniting a war from the sidelines—breaking a peace treaty because it was too calm, too quiet, too real. Like maybe if they could hurt each other hard enough, Anthony wouldn’t have to feel anything else—like maybe if Tucker stopped looking at him like…like…that, then he could go back to his life after this tour and never think about him again.

Like maybe he wasn’t fooling himself.

Another week, another backstage tumble, clothes falling across their limbs, sweat cooling between them in the dark.

Tucker breathes into the hollow of Anthony’s throat, as though he felt safe in that spot. Anthony doesn’t want to say anything as the drummer’s calloused fingers brush down his chest, gentle as though he was afraid Anthony might break beneath him.

Too much. Anthony grabbed his wrist and muttered, “Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

He doesn’t answer. Because if he tells Tucker not to touch him as though he likes Anthony, then that will be admitting that he noticed—and if Anthony admits that he noticed, then he would be one step away from telling Tucker that he wanted the drummer to mean it. The rejection would be one thing—it would hurt, but it would be little different from what they had already spent the past couple years doing. No, what caused Anthony’s stomach to twist between them was the thought that Tucker may very well mean it.

Which was why, when the drummer sighed and pulled away, Anthony let him.

Anthony watches from side stage, as he always does. He tells himself that it’s just habit, that he’s only there because he knows the set times and has nothing better to do—nobody is at his merch table while Thursday is onstage.

He’s not watching him.

But when Tucker hits that second verse break – snare tight, arms wild, sweat flying – and looks up through the chaos, it’s Anthony he locks eyes with.

It’s just a second. Just a glance. Just a beat. But Tucker doesn’t look away—not right away. It’s not his usual smirk on his face, either—it’s not even one of the many faces he makes while drumming, looking every part the animal let loose onstage. No, it’s bare—open in a way that Tucker never shows, at least not around Anthony. It’s like he forgot to put on his armour, and something in Anthony’s chest cracks under the weight of it.

Something in Anthony’s face must shift, must flicker unguarded, because, standing only a few feet away with sweat soaking every inch of him like he was dunked into a lake, Geoff turns and looks back at the drummer with a curious expression.

He doesn’t say anything. He can’t while he’s onstage.

But he noticed.

Anthony watches as Tucker’s eyes widen just a fraction, enough that, after all the time he spent under the weight of those eyes, looking into them and pretending that he didn’t see his entire heart and soul there, Anthony could see it—the fear. So, he’s not surprised when Tucker avoids the both of them, facing instead the kit before him, and launches into the bridge like it owes him blood. Maybe it did—Anthony had heard stories about how violent the Thursday song writing sessions could be. Maybe it was catharsis in more ways than just one.

They still managed to find one another later, the tension sharp enough to cut through metal, but the both of them buzzing like live wires.

Anthony doesn’t say anything. Neither does Tucker. It was like that one look drained all the air from their lungs. He lights a cigarette just to have something to do with his hands, but he doesn’t even smoke it—just lets it burn between his lips.

Finally, because he can’t fucking help himself, Anthony asks, “Why did you look at me like that?”

Tucker doesn’t look up. “Like what?”

“Like…” He furrows his brow. “Like I’m not a fucking mistake.”

The silence is practically deafening, and when Tucker whispers, so quiet Anthony could barely hear him, “I didn’t mean to,” he couldn’t help but clench his jaw, nod, and retort with only minimal venom, “Yeah, that’s the problem.”

And, before the drummer could find the words to fix whatever had happened between them, Anthony had turned on his heel, cigarette falling to the ground as he stubbed it out with his sneaker. He didn’t come back—he didn’t seek Tucker out again for the night. He couldn’t, because the same dilemma that had been tearing away at him for the past several days continued to crawl all over his skin like a swarm of ants.

Because he wasn’t sure what would hurt more—if Tucker meant it, or if he didn’t.

Chapter Text

He hasn’t seen him in days. Not since the silence. Not since the look. Not since Anthony decided that he didn’t want to know.

Well, no, that wasn’t entirely true. He had seen him, because Tucker was everywhere—in the corner of his eye, onstage in a blur of arms and noise, laughing too loud by catering, even making some could-be-crueler jabs at the brand new banner Anthony was pinning up behind the merch table to let people know whose wares he was peddling. Like nothing had fucking happened. Like Anthony hadn’t seen something real in his face. Like Anthony didn’t feel seen in a way that he hadn’t in a long, long time.

He tries to ignore him.

But Anthony’s body remembers all too well.

His feet were moving, but he was not in control. At least, that’s what he would tell himself later as to why he was approaching the trailer behind the stage after Thursday’s set, watching the smoke curl into the night air from the cigarette between the lone man’s fingers.

Anthony stopped a few feet away. It was impossible to hope that maybe Tucker hadn’t noticed him, but maybe he still had time to—

“Thought maybe you were done with this,” the words come out hoarsely.

He doesn’t answer. There’s nothing Anthony could say that would pull the aching out of the smaller man’s throat—nothing that the both of them would not immediately regret. So, instead, he steps forward and grabs the front of Tucker’s damp shirt – the sweat already cooling in the night air – and slams him back against the trailer, watching as the shock of the movement knocks the drummer’s hand and straight to the ground.

When their lips meet, Anthony is punishing him—for being there, for everything he said, for making him feel anything at all. And when Tucker returns the kiss with an equal roughness, Anthony thinks that maybe, he’s drowning in the same fire.

Afterwards, as they lie together on the grass, tangled in one another’s limbs, mouths still inches from one another, neither of them speak.

They can’t.

But the drummer’s hand finds Anthony’s again—quiet, tentative, soft. Like that look that never ended. Like it’s still hanging in the space between them, refusing to be buried, like maybe Tucker might actually fucking mean—

Tucker flinches as Anthony pulls away harder than he expected, harder than he meant to. He can’t bring himself to look at the drummer, to see whatever might be unmaskable on his face, to see whatever raw, honest emotions were pouring out in the words left unspoken between them, as he mutters, “This doesn’t mean anything.” Because that’s what he keeps telling himself—it doesn’t mean anything because it can’t mean anything. There was no happy ending to their story, and to pretend otherwise would be to invite heartbreak.

The laugh that comes from the drummer is bitter as he says, “Right. Still hate me.”

Anthony can only nod. “Always.”

He can’t argue with him, because to suggest otherwise – even to suggest a comradery between them – would be too…real.

He doesn’t say goodbye, either, as he slips away into the night, seeking out the probably drunk members of his own band – he thinks, as though he was one of them and not the most expendable member of the crew – or the privacy of the van or anything. They should be back on the road in a couple hours, anyway, so, at the very least, Anthony could maybe bum a joint from the designated driver of the evening.

But even with the highway rolling beneath them, patches of asphalt separating their van from the many buses of the tour, he couldn’t close his eyes without seeing a certain pair of eyes, a certain insufferable grin, a certain uncomfortably open look.

Anthony had just made it to catering the next day, cracking a joke with someone about the chaos of load-in, when he catches a flash of brown hair.

Followed by, “Didn’t know merch guys could flirt and lie through their teeth.”

He spins, despite himself – he would have preferred to ignore the jab, but, alas – just in time to catch Tucker’s shrug, face torn between a faux indifference and stony anger, as he added, “Must be multitasking season.”

The comment stings.

Not because it hurts, even though, well, it does—Anthony was just chatting, he was allowed to make friends when he was stuck here all summer, crowded between sweaty bodies and pushing merch that, frankly, nobody wanted to buy. He wasn’t even one of the musicians, whose role on the tour was praised, whose performances the fans spent hours, days, weeks anticipating. No, Anthony was a nobody and being an alone nobody was…well, he already felt like that each night in the van, to some degree. It wasn’t exactly like he was living the dream.

But, no, it wasn’t the fact that the comment hurt that caused its sting. It was the fact that Tucker sounded jealous. And, as his stomach began to twist into all sorts of contortions, he couldn’t help but think that Tucker’s mask was cracking…and Anthony wasn’t ready to see it.

The heat was blistering.

Anthony already felt dehydrated as he panted through load-out, soaked in sweat and low on patience.

The yelling was unmistakable. The fact that it wasn’t directed at Anthony – well, not entirely – was surprising, because he wasn’t sure he had ever heard the drummer’s voice raised that way where anyone else was concerned. Something about being late. Something about missing drum gear. Something about, “maybe if certain people weren’t too busy eye-fucking merch guys…” floated across the pavement toward him.

His blood boils as he tosses down the cables in his hands – he wouldn’t know what to do with them, anyway – and stalks over, vision practically swimming as he begins to feel lightheaded from his already raised body temperature.

“You got something to say, Rule, or are you just gonna keep acting like a jealous asshole until someone knocks your teeth in?”

Tucker’s face is practically steaming as he turns to meet Anthony. “Jealous?” he balks, but it doesn’t come out quite as unbelievable as he was clearly going for. “Of what? The fact that you’ll throw yourself at anyone who breathes in your direction?”

The crowd, grumbling about their own business around them, goes quiet.

Anthony closes in.

“You don’t get to do this to me,” he hisses. It’s so close, it’s getting too close to that spot that he doesn’t want to acknowledge, that line he doesn’t want to cross. Tucker doesn’t get to give him these looks, these gentle touches, act like Anthony is something to him, not when Anthony can’t know for sure—not when Anthony could risk hanging on for someone who will never…he can’t finish that thought. He can’t let himself go there. He watches as the fire burning in Tucker’s eyes reflects what’s already searing underneath his own skin.

“You don’t get to touch me like I matter and then humiliate me in front of everyone else,” he continues.

“Oh, please,” the drummer scoffs. “You knew what this was.”

It takes everything in Anthony got to grab the other man by his collar and slam him into the nearest surface. “I thought I did,” he says, “until you started looking at me like…like…like maybe it wasn’t just about fucking, anymore.”

Silence. The word hangs between them like a bullet, frozen from the gun that Anthony just shot as he made target practice out of Tucker’s damp chest. Fucking—that’s all it was. That’s all it was supposed to be. No tenderness, no holding one another, no looking at the stars and wondering what else was out there for them in the universe. But Tucker’s expression begins to crumble, and the look on his face betrays the truth.

It hadn’t been that for a long time.

He groaned into Tucker’s mouth as his fingers clenched around the fabric between them. Tucker kisses him like it’s the last time—like maybe he’s trying to make up for every time he didn’t say what he meant, every time he looked away. Every time he didn’t.

Anthony pressed him against the wall, the both of them breathing hard, frantic, fumbling.

Tucker’s hands tremble as they find Anthony’s waist, when he buries his face in Anthony’s neck and just stays there. This isn’t just heat or habit.

It’s need.

He barely hears it when Tucker speaks. He’s not sure if he meant to hear it, if Tucker was talking to himself or to no one at all. But Anthony’s heart clenches when the whispered words of, “I can’t do this anymore,” reach his ears.

“Then stop,” Anthony whispers back, equally unsure of who the words are meant for, almost trembling as much as the drummer as they leave his mouth. He wants to take them back the moment he speaks them, but it’s too late—they’re out there in the world, and Tucker is breathing against him like he’s afraid. Anthony can barely register his own breathing as he continues, “But don’t lie about what this is,” because he needs to say it. He doesn’t care anymore how far toward the edge he is leaning—at least, he doesn’t care in the moment.

Tucker pulled back just enough to look at Anthony, and, for once, there was no sarcasm, no bite. Just him, raw and scared and real.

“I don’t hate you,” he says, quiet, like it cost him something.

Anthony nodded slowly. “I know.”

He didn’t put his arms around Tucker and pull him close like that intrusive voice in the back of his head insisted. That still might be a little too much. Anthony did, however, rest his forehead against the drummer’s, an unspoken reminder that he was there.

They don’t talk about it—not the fight, not the trailer, not the way Tucker said, “I don’t hate you,” like it was a confession and a curse all at once.

Tucker walked past Anthony’s table the next day and tossed him a water bottle as though nothing happened, but that act alone was evidence that something had—there was something friendlier between them now, an understanding that hadn’t been there previously. Anthony catches it without saying a word, but when his eyes find Tucker’s, something flickers between them – deep and terrified – and the both of them immediately turn away.

Tucker finds him later. He doesn’t say anything as he pulls Anthony close and kisses him slowly, like he’s still trying to convince himself that this is just physical—just habit. But it’s not, because when Tucker kisses him like that, it hurts.

Not from the heat. Not from the pressure.

No, it hurts from how careful Tucker is with his mouth, from how he touches Anthony’s cheek like he’s trying to memorize every line in his face, a picture upon which he can gaze in his mind when summer has ended. It almost crushes Anthony at how true that likely was—and how similar he was likely to find himself if he wasn’t careful. Like he’s scared that if he forgets him, Anthony might lose Tucker altogether. So, he lets him—he lets the smaller man touch him, caress him, map out his every feature, his every breath.

But when Tucker leaned in like he was about to say something, Anthony immediately jumped to the defense. “You gonna start writing poetry now, Rule?”

Tucker froze.

He laughs as he pulls back, but there’s no bite in it, just hurt as he says, “Right. Of course.”

Anthony almost felt bad as he watched the wall slam back up behind the other man’s eyes, the softness of his own features replaced with the stoniness of a fortress, a moat surrounding it to prevent intruders from entering lightly. But, even behind the hardness of his expression, Anthony could see the cracks—like the drawbridge would crumble into the water the moment he let down the gate, welcoming and sabotaging all at the same time.

But life went on as normal. Tucker would say something like, “Hey, your eyeliner’s smudging! Try not to cry when your band flubs the encore!” and Anthony would retort with, “I’ll cry when Thursday headlines a show without sounding like they’ve never even seen a guitar.”

Everyone would laugh. Anthony would laugh too. But when he would lock eyes with Tucker, he would see the same realization.

It’s not fun anymore.

The last show of the summer came up too quickly. As much as Anthony could not wait to sleep in his own bed again, he was not looking forward to going back to his monotonous life, his parents, his stained Starbucks apron.

He avoids Tucker for most of the day. There’s a glance here, a look there. That’s it.

But every second stretches too long. Every laugh he hears from across the lot cuts too deep, because Anthony knows what his laugh sounds like in his ears at two in the morning, when everyone else is dead to the world. He knows how Tucker sighs as Anthony trails his fingers down his ribs, the way he whines with a mouth between his thighs. He knows things he was never supposed to learn, and now he was suddenly supposed to walk away and, what—forget like it ever happened? Pretend he doesn’t want it anymore?

Like he hasn’t wanted it each time he saw a brush of matted brown hair in his peripheral vision, a crash of a cymbal somewhere on a stage?

It’s hanging between them as they find each other that night.

The silence is practically deafening with the way Anthony’s heart beats in his throat, the two of them hidden behind a stack of cases in the shadow of the main stage scaffolding. There probably wouldn’t be much time until someone came to start tearing it down.

It was Tucker who broke the silence, mumbling, “Guess this is it,” with his hands fisted in the pockets of his cargo shorts. Anthony isn’t quite sure how to respond, so he only shrugs and says, “Until next summer,” even though he hasn’t decided if he’ll even be returning next summer. He wasn’t exactly fond of the band he was working for this year, and he likely wasn’t going to get any other offers until at least springtime.

Tucker nods, but Anthony doesn’t miss the moment something in his face falters. He reaches out for the drummer—just a hand on his wrist. Not a kiss, not this time. Tucker looked down at where Anthony’s skin touched his.

And, suddenly, it’s all right there under the surface—everything they never said, everything they both fought not to feel.

“Take care of yourself,” Tucker finally says.

Anthony nods. “You, too.”

He walks away first, because Anthony’s afraid that if he doesn’t, he will say something he might regret—or, worse yet, something he wouldn’t. He doesn’t look back either—if he catches whatever emotion is pooling in Tucker’s gaze, he might never leave.

Chapter Text

Another summer, another offer, and this time Anthony gets to ride in a bus again—and, better yet, he actually likes the band who asked him to man their merch table. Summer 2005 was already shaping up to be his best Warped Tour experience.

He had just finished setting up his table when he heard it—the distinct sound of sticks on a snare, muffled by a tent wall.

His stomach flips in that stupid, traitorous way it always does.

Anthony looks up just in time to see him as he stumbles out of the tent, fresh off soundcheck, practically glistening as his shirt already clung to his chest. His hair is shorter, his chest is broader, and his eyes are scanning the lot in the poorest attempt at subtlety ever. The both of them freeze as those eyes – a colour Anthony still hasn’t worked out even after years of pretending he wasn’t staring into them – fall upon his table and, with no attempt to hide it, on the man himself, causing Tucker to stop altogether.

It's just a second. A heartbeat. A crash of everything Anthony tried to bury over the past year. And then Tucker is walking toward him like nothing changed, but everything from his face to his body language proves that it has.

He doesn’t say hello, not really. Instead, Tucker steps into his space and asks, “So, miss me?”

Anthony rolled his eyes and retorted, “About as much as I miss food poisoning,” but he’s already smiling by the time he finishes—and Tucker notices.

Oh, the way Tucker’s expression darkens like something hot, something dangerous, something they both stopped pretending was real. The drummer smiles back, not quite insufferable but something else entirely, as he whispers, “Liar.”

Before Anthony can help himself, he’s stepping closer.

And before he can come to his senses and step back again, Tucker’s got his hand on the back of Anthony’s neck, pulling him down into a kiss so fast, so needy, that it nearly knocks the breath from both their lungs. It’s not sweet, it’s not soft—it’s everything they held back the last summer and all the months since. Tongue and teeth and groaned curses, Tucker clutches at his shirt as though he never thought Anthony would come back.

Somehow, they end up in Tucker’s bunk that night, a place where they were far more likely to be caught than any of their previous dalliances. They try to be quiet, but it’s different now—not just sex, not just scratching an itch.

It’s desperate. Familiar. Like home.

Maybe it always was.

But neither of them says it. Not yet. Because the risk is greater, and now…now there’s far too much to lose.

The sun was setting, crowds were still raving from inside the event grounds, and Anthony was hanging out behind the Thursday bus, sweaty and tired from a long day under the sun, half hiding…half wanting to be found.

It’s not long before he hears the low scruff of shoes on the pavement, the click of the lighter, the tentative but amused, “You avoiding me again?”

Amused. Amused was good. That meant Tucker wasn’t mad. Or upset.

Anthony doesn’t look at him when he feels the body shuffle closer to him, the addictive scent of nicotine wafting over his shoulder. He’s still not sure what he even wants to say as the words slip out, “Though we weren’t doing the clingy thing.”

It’s the roughness of the drummer’s voice when Tucker says, “I don’t want anyone else touching you this year,” that has Anthony’s head snapping in his direction. Tucker meets his gaze as he exhales a breath of smoke, a hardness in his eyes backed by something more…vulnerable. Anthony can’t exactly help himself as he raises an eyebrow and asks jokingly, “Is that jealousy or possessiveness?” Because, despite that the drummer doesn’t look like he’s joking, Anthony cannot think of a reason he would be so…so…

Open.

“Same thing when it’s you,” Tucker muttered with a shrug. There’s no smirk this time, just a shadow in his eyes that’s too real.

Anthony swallows hard.

They’ve fucked, fought, hid, lied, but this—this naming things? They were practically stepping into uncharged territory, crossing lines that, the previous summer, the both of them had been too frightened to cross—Anthony was still scared.

And it was that fear that had him moving before he could second-guess himself, placing his hands on the smaller man’s shoulders, and pressing him up against the cool metal of the bus. He dragged his mouth over Tucker’s like he was starving, and maybe he was—it had been too long since he had been able to touch the man, to drink him in, to allow himself to think about him without all sorts of doom looming over him.

It's not just lust anymore. It’s addiction. And now?

Well, now they both know it.

He’s sitting behind a cooler tent, trying to eat some soggy festival pizza, when a familiar body slides up to him and asks, “Mind if I…?”

“You’re already here,” Anthony mutters, as if he doesn’t care.

Tucker snorts. “You get meaner every year,” he says, and although he’s doing his best not to look at him, Anthony knows the drummer has that stupid grin on his face as he continues his thought, “It’s kinda hot.”

He rolls his eyes, but he doesn’t tell Tucker to leave. He doesn’t even realize how close Tucker is – how close the crate beside him which is serving as the smaller man’s seat – is to him, until he feels the brush of thigh against thigh. Anthony hates himself – even if only for a moment – for the way his breath skips when the fabric of the drummer’s shorts meets his leg hair—and for the way he wishes Tucker wore shorter shorts so that, perhaps, he could feel skin against skin. He feels as though his brain is becoming as soggy as the pizza.

It's comfortable, companionable, as they sit like that for a while, talking shit about some of the bands on the tour and trading familiar jabs.

Anthony feels his fingers creeping toward the drummer’s, but manages to keep his distance.

People walk past. Nobody notices.

Tucker doesn’t reach for him in return, but Anthony could tell that he, too, had noticed. And, that night, when Anthony sneaks onto the Thursday bus in yet another act of recklessness and Tucker takes him apart with the kind of touch that feels like worship, he can’t help but wonder – not for the first time, and surely not for the last – how long they can manage to keep the secret before it manages to burn the entire tour down.

Emotions heightened in the way they always are after a show, Tucker is half-laughing and out of breath as Anthony meets him behind the stage, ducking narrowly into the space between this equipment case or that, ranting about shitty festival water pressure.

Tucker’s fingers curl around his wrist. Anthony pushes him against the wall. The kiss is filthy, messy, perfect.

They don’t hear the footsteps until it’s almost too late.

By some miracle, the two of them managed to pull apart right before Geoff rounded the corner, a confused and curious expression on his face. Anthony drops to his knee, pretending to tie his shoe—forgetting the fact that he was not wearing shoes with laces, but, hey, it was dark enough at this point that maybe Geoff wouldn’t notice. In any case, Anthony didn’t feel like it was him that would be the one to blow their cover—Tucker is much less subtle as he stumbles back and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

Geoff looks at them and pauses, eyes narrowing. “Everything good here?”

Tucker’s responding grin is too quick, too big. Anthony is not surprised in the least that Geoff appears unconvinced as the drummer responds, “Peachy.”

It is by some small blessing that the vocalist does not press them further, but even as he leaves, risking one last glance in their direction, Anthony knew they were not done being scrutinized. Geoff had been a constant figure looming over this…whatever this was between them for the past few years, and he imagined the man was not oblivious. He can’t help but divert his gaze to the grass when Tucker looks at him.

Neither of them says what’s echoing in their chests as their eyes meet again, all the same fear and uncertainty of past summers pooling within them, threatening to overturn the newfound understanding between them—they got lucky.

But whatever this was crackled now like an electrical fire, and it was only a matter of time until it began to spread.

The night was winding down, the sun just dipping below the horizon, and the air smelled like a not unwelcome combination of dust and sweat.

It was one of those long, humid nights where Anthony is too tired to think, too worn out from the chaos of tour to pretend anymore. And, yet, they were still dancing around one another like it was a game—still pretending it was just this, just tonight, for a little bit of relief. But it’s getting harder—the cracks are showing, and if Anthony could see them, he wondered who else out there had also noticed. It wasn’t hard to miss the way Tucker smiled as he passed by Anthony’s merch table, the way Anthony watched Thursday’s sets like a die-hard…

He's helping out one of the roadies by grabbing gear from side stage when Tucker finds him. “Got a minute?” the drummer asks, hands casually stuffed in his pockets, but his eyes? Those orbs have been far too full lately—too aware.

Anthony doesn’t answer immediately. He walks toward him, close enough that Tucker’s body heat hit his through layers of sweat and exhaustion.

He watches as Tucker’s lips flicker down to his, and a shiver runs through him.

When the drummer finally speaks, it’s quieter, rougher than Anthony expected. The, “I hate that I want you this much,” comes out in naught but a breath, but it doesn’t stop Anthony’s heart from skipping a beat.

No sarcasm this time. No joke. Just honesty.

“Then stop,” he says, as if it’s that easy, as if he wants Tucker to do that. It’s perhaps with relief that Anthony almost sighs when the words, whispered even quieter than his last, left the drummer’s mouth: “I can’t.” This would be the moment to back away, to give Tucker the chance to stop, to give Anthony the chance to figure out what the hell he’s doing—instead, he grabs the back of Tucker’s neck and pulls him in.

This time, it’s not about the burn between their legs. This time, it’s about something more—the heat in his breath, the way Tucker’s hands cling to Anthony like he’s scared the taller man might slip away. It’s everything that has been left unsaid between them.

When they break apart, it’s not because they want to.

It’s because they have to.

The crowd’s still going, music still thumping from every inch of the festival grounds, but it’s like they’re the only two people in the world as Tucker looks at Anthony. The drummer’s eyes are dark as he says, “If we keep doing this, we’re not going to make it through the tour.”

Anthony says it again: “Then stop.” He doesn’t know what else to say. He doesn’t trust himself to say anything truthful, honest, real because if he starts…then he may never stop. And, deep down, he knows that Tucker won’t listen to him—that he can safely say it without the drummer taking him to heart, without Tucker disappearing into the night. Because, as much as they both tried to deny it for so long, there is something drawing them toward one another, and stopping was not something either was capable of doing.

And it’s dangerous, he thinks, as they both mingle in the crowds of an afterparty later that night, Tucker’s eyes finding his from across the room.

They don’t speak. Not publicly, anyway.

But their bodies find one another in the crowd, Tucker’s hand finding the dip of Anthony’s back for just a second too long before he’s disappeared again. His laugh carries throughout the room, reaching Anthony’s ears before he has even realized where the drummer is, and he feels something in the pit of his stomach—he doesn’t want to care. He doesn’t care. But every touch, every sound is a reminder that something has changed.

And, when he finally catches Tucker staring at him, there’s something else in his gaze—longing, frustration.

Whatever it is, it’s a look that punches Anthony in the gut, and he finds himself desperate for air, looking around through greasy heads and plumes of smoke for the nearest exit. He needed to get out of there before he suffocated.

He’s not surprised when Tucker slips out the door behind him.

He is surprised when Tucker slams him against the wall with a desperation that makes his breath catch. The drummer’s lips are on his before he can even protest – not that Anthony was sure he even would, though it did defeat the purpose of coming outside to breathe – and this kiss is…different. It’s not angry or rushed, it’s…slow, painfully slow, as though Tucker was savouring every inch of him before Anthony slipped out of his grasp once more. They never talk about what happens after tour, because nothing happens after tour.

But Anthony can’t pretend anymore as he pulls away, chest heaving and asks, “Tucker, what the hell is this?” with maybe a slightly too sharp tone.

Tucker’s face falls. “I don’t know,” he admits. “But I don’t know how to stop it.”

He can feel the tightness in his throat.

Anthony wants to run away, wants to go somewhere safe, somewhere where things continued on as normal without threatening to change everything he had ever known. Instead, he presses his forehead to Tucker’s, breath mingling between them.

“We can’t keep doing this,” he says. He can feel the way the smaller man’s breath hitches, like he’s ready to protest, like there’s nothing that frightens Tucker more than stopping—which Anthony understood all too well. He could say it a thousand times, but he certainly wasn’t following his own direction. Plus, that wasn’t what he meant this time, anyway. “We can’t keep pretending it’s nothing,” he elaborates.

Tucker’s hand shakes slightly as it rests on Anthony’s hip. “I’m not pretending it’s nothing,” he whispers. “You are.”

Anthony kisses him again.

This time, it’s not the spark of attraction, an unbridled lust, an animalistic need to touch one another before either of them spontaneously combusts. No, this time it’s something else, something more…something neither of them can ignore anymore. They leave before anyone else can see—an art they have perfected after years of sneaking around. Anthony sneaks onto the Thursday bus once more, and this time, it’s not about sex—it’s about everything between them, everything they’re both going to miss over the next year.

Neither of them speaks afterwards, but the silence is a conversation in and of itself.

And neither of them is ready for what’s next.

Chapter Text

Perhaps one of the hardest parts about returning home after a summer of chaos and unexpected turns around every corner is that, somehow, routine manages to pick up like one never left. Anthony shuffles into work as though he was there only yesterday.

But, as he pulls the lever on the espresso machine, he can’t help but feel something is different.

Well, because it was.

Everything feels like it’s slipping through his fingers, like the world around him wasn’t real, like the counter before him would immaterialize the moment he woke up from this dream because some part of him refused to let go of summer—of him.

He knows it’s stupid. He knows he should be moving on, because whatever he had with Tucker was not long term—it was an ongoing summer fling that continued into each next summer, but, eventually, one of them would stop turning up. Whether it was Anthony choosing to take a different job over the summer, or Tucker finding another merch guy with attitude with whom to tumble into his bunk—it wasn’t meant to last.

But, here he stands, wrestling with the ghosts of summer, haunted by the way his name tastes on his tongue, still feeling the burn of his touch.

It’s the kind of thing Anthony doesn’t talk about. Not to anyone.

He keeps it buried in his chest, like he always has, where even he could pretend it didn’t exist.

Tucker hasn’t said much to anyone since the tour ended. A couple of texts here and there, a few scattered calls, but nothing that feels too deep—too real.

Nobody is surprised, really. The end of tour is always an exhausting time, and after spending all those months cooped up together in the bus, the band needed time apart to breathe—it only took so long before they were at one another’s throats, so time off was savoured. But, eventually, they had to make it back into the studio, because such tours couldn’t continue if they didn’t have new material to keep them relevant. Tucker was present physically, but even as he practiced his fills, his head was somewhere else…somewhere warmer.

It's after one such session, as they’re blowing off the steam of argument after argument with a series of beers, that Geoff turns to him. Tucker pretends he doesn’t notice the concern on his friend’s face as the vocalist asks, “You okay, man?”

He shrugs, taking another swig from his bottle. “Yeah. Fine.”

“I don’t buy it,” Geoff says bluntly. “What happened this year? I mean, with…him?” He doesn’t name Anthony, but Tucker isn’t stupid.

“Nothing happened. It was a summer thing.”

Geoff raises an eyebrow. “Really? Because you look like someone who’s been carrying around a shit ton of weight for months. You’ve barely talked about it. You’ve barely talked at all.” Tucker can’t help but clench his jaw as the other man continues, “You can’t keep pretending it was nothing. Not after the way you were looking at him all summer like you were going to break if he so much as walked away from you.”

The vocalist doesn’t realize how close he is to the truth. Tucker looks down at the bottle between his fingers as Geoff presses, “So, what’s going on? You keep looking at your phone like you’re waiting for something.”

He doesn’t have an answer. Not one that would make sense. Not the kind that wouldn’t break him right open for the world to see.

So, he does what he always does. He laughs. “I’m fine, Geoff. Really.”

But, as the vocalist changes the subject to the argument he had been having with Tom earlier, hoping to convince Tucker to talk some sense into his best friend, it’s clear that Geoff is not convinced. Tucker’s not quite convinced, either.

The both of them continue on with their lives, and it’s like the summer has faded into a recurring dream. Until Anthony is flipping through channels one night, and catches a familiar head banging as sticks fly all around him, the smash of the drums just as chaotic in the silence of Anthony’s living room. It’s the new music video—the new song for the upcoming album that he had no idea Thursday was even working on, because he and Tucker never talked about this sort of thing. They never really talked about anything outside of summer.

It reminds him that he doesn’t really know Tucker at all. Not really. Not in the ways that matter.

But he wants to.

And, soon enough, he receives another offer—the same band as the previous year, the same guys who loved having Anthony on their team, and with a pay raise to boot. There’s no hesitation as he immediately accepts, agreeing to join the Warped Tour circuit once more.

There’s a familiar pulse in the air as summer approaches, as Anthony starts putting in his request for his leave of absence from work – if the owners hadn’t known him since he was a child, they would probably think he was a college student going home for the summer – and started thinking of which shirts he wanted to sweat through for the next three months. He’s excited, he’s nervous, and one face keeps flashing before his eyes.

It's different this time. He knows it. He may not have spoken to Tucker in nearly a year, but he would wager a guess that the drummer knows it too.

There’s a question now, hanging in the space between them, unspoken but nevertheless there.

And this year, it won’t be so easy to pretend it’s nothing.

Chapter Text

The sun is blistering, the air is thick with heat, and the whole lot smells something like sweat and anticipation. Anthony is standing in the back of his tent, setting up his table, but he’s not really focusing—not when he’s spent months waiting for this day.

For this reunion.

Anthony knows he’s out there somewhere. He feels it like a pull in his chest, and every minute that passes, he grows more and more aware of it.

He’s here. He’s always here. And Thursday was on the list of bands this year, so Anthony would be crazy to assume that Tucker wouldn’t show up with the rest of his band…unless something happened to him. Oh, god, what if something did happen to him? Anthony wouldn’t even know if something had happened to Tucker—they never shared contact information, no phone numbers or addresses, nothing that suggested there was a world for them outside the chaos that was screaming crowds and traveling buses.

He shook his head. He couldn’t think like that. Tucker was fine.

The tour had barely even started, and Anthony can already feel that ache in his chest, the one that always comes with knowing where he is, even if he can’t see him. Yes, Tucker was definitely somewhere on the festival grounds already.

Anthony’s not sure if he’s ready for it—to face the ways things have changed. But he doesn’t get to choose, as the moment sneaks up upon him while he sets out brand new shirts on his table, designs even more exciting than the previous year. He keeps his eyes on the shirts, tries to pretend he doesn’t notice Tucker approaching him, but when he looks up, even for just a second, it’s like time has shifted altogether.

He's not the same as last year. He’s still got the same cocky, confident, infuriating grin, but there’s something different in his eyes.

Something…softer, maybe. Less guarded. Less mean.

Anthony tries to act casual, straightening out the fabric beneath his fingers as he says, “Hey.”

It comes out a little rougher than he intended, but Tucker doesn’t comment on it. Instead, a smile tugs at the drummer’s lips, a respondent, “Hey,” repeated back at him. It wasn’t the smirk Anthony was used to. This smile was genuine, like Tucker wanted to be there. And, for a second, it almost feels normal—until Tucker asks, “Miss me?” in a tone that suggests it should be a joke, but everything in his eyes betrays that sentiment. Silence rises between them, and Anthony feels his stomach tighten as he struggles to find the words.

“I guess,” he finally responds, shrugging like he’s indifferent while inside everything is spinning. Tucker laughs softly, but it’s quieter than usual—no teasing, no edge. It’s a laugh that feels almost like he means it.

And Anthony can’t look away.

“So,” the drummer begins after a beat, “Still doing this merch thing?”

As if it wasn’t obvious by the way Anthony stood behind the table, sorting out shirts as though he was the master of them. He nods, anyway, and asks, as though it, again, isn’t the obvious reason why Tucker is here, “You still playing the drums?”

The drummer nods. “Some things never change,” he says, but this time it’s not a challenge—it’s a simple statement, and it hits Anthony in a way he wasn’t expecting. The comfort of it, the way they both fall back into this easy rhythm, as though they hadn’t just spent the last ten months apart, chasing the dream that was summer. Anthony can’t help the soft smile that rises to his own lips as he murmurs, “Yeah, I guess not.”

There’s a pause as Tucker’s gaze drifts down to the merch table. A frown pulls at his lips. “I guess I should get going,” he finally says.

Anthony nods, but he doesn’t want him to go. Not yet.

“Yeah,” he agrees, because eventually Tucker was going to have to go, and it wouldn’t do well for either of them to make that into scene. Still, he can’t help the sadness that creeps into his tone as he continues, “I’ll see you around, Tucker.”

Tucker doesn’t answer right away, instead just giving Anthony a look like he wants to say more. And when he turns to walk away, a hollow feeling carves itself into Anthony’s chest, an aching that he never expected to feel so soon upon seeing the other man again—an aching he was all too familiar with, but this time, it felt different. He couldn’t say why, but there was something…hopeful in it, like, maybe, this wasn’t the end. He can’t quite name it, but it’s there, like something blooming and brightening in his chest.

And it feels like, maybe – just maybe – this is just the beginning.

He’s leaning against a bus – whose, he’s not quite sure – while the crew around him finishes up their load-out, the last notes of the final set still echoing in the distance. There’s a lull in the chaos, and for the first time, Anthony doesn’t feel like running away from it.

He doesn’t have to look up to know Tucker has appeared beside him. “Wanna grab a drink?” the drummer asks.

When Anthony glances up at him, Tucker is standing there, not quite in his personal space but close enough that he can feel the heat radiating off of him. He almost wants to say no—almost wants to push him away like he’s done a thousand times before. This wasn’t something they did, they didn’t get drinks together. But something inside him makes him hesitate—maybe it’s the calmness in the air, the slight breeze in the wind.

Maybe it’s the sweetness of the drummer’s smile.

So, Anthony nods. “Yeah,” he responds, a smile rising to his own lips. “I could use one.”

They don’t go to the beer tent, not where everyone could see them. Instead, they find a bar down the street from the venue grounds, a quiet booth in the corner where, as far as they were concerned, they were hidden from the world.

The words come in fits and starts – talking about sets, the crowds, usual Warped Tour stuff – but it’s different this time. There are no insults, neither of them hiding behind jokes—they’re both just…present, sharing the details of their intertwined lives. It’s only after a few drinks that the conversation takes a quieter turn—it began with something about the tour, something about familiar places and unfamiliar faces, the new bands on the lineup this year and the fresh crew that came with them. But, somehow, it shifts to last year.

“How have you been?” Tucker asks, voice lower than usual, like he’s testing the waters. This was entirely new territory for them.

Anthony shrugs. “Same old. You?”

“Yeah, same,” the drummer responds, but it’s not convincing. His eyes flicker to Anthony’s face as though he’s trying to figure something out, and the silence stretches. Anthony is the first to break it, surprising himself as he says, “You look different.”

Tucker raises an eyebrow. “Yeah?” he asks. “How?”

Anthony bites his lip as he thinks about how to word it. “Less…angry,” is what comes out of his mouth, and Tucker surprises him in return, chuckling—it’s not bitter, but warm, like he’s relieved that Anthony said it. “Maybe I am,” the drummer admits. There’s a thoughtfulness in his expression, like he’s been pondering the same thing for some time. “Maybe I’m trying to figure out…some things,” he continues.

His heart beats a little faster, because there’s no way Anthony misunderstood his meaning. Still, he couldn’t help but ask, “Like what?” because he wanted to hear him say it, he wanted to hear the words from Tucker’s mouth.

He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he looks down at his drink, swirls it, and sighs. “Maybe I’m just tired of pretending, you know?”

Anthony’s not sure how to respond to that. Not yet, at least.

The both of them drink in silence for a moment, the weight of everything still hanging between them as they contemplated exactly what they were doing with one another. And maybe, not for the first time, it doesn’t feel like a game anymore.

The heat’s suffocating, the crowd’s already wild, and the backstage areas are buzzing with the chaos of another day. The tour was in full swing, and even though it was the same hustle, the same grind, everything felt different this year. Anthony couldn’t quite put his finger on it, but it was like there was an unspoken understanding between him and Tucker, and every time the two of them locked eyes, it was as though they knew that something was changing—and Anthony wasn’t quite sure if he was ready for it.

He wasn’t expecting to see Tucker today, not after the conversation the previous night. They were both so damn close to something, anything—

And then the walls slammed right back up.

Anthony is pulling shirts from the merch bin when he hears his voice, low and familiar, a simple, “Hey,” from behind him. He doesn’t turn around at first—he wants to, but Anthony’s afraid of what he might see in the drummer’s eyes.

So, he replies with a repeated, “Hey,” back at him, forcing himself to sound casual.

It probably didn’t succeed quite so well as he hoped, because the next thing that leaves Tucker’s mouth is a concerned, “You good?” as the smaller man stepped closer, sneakers scuffing against the pavement. When Anthony finally looks up at him, there’s a shift in the air, a change in the drummer’s posture—his body language becomes less cocky, more…uncertain. Anthony can see it in the way Tucker is careful not to invade his space.

“Yeah,” he responds, but he’s not entirely sure he means it. “You?” he asks, watching as Tucker hesitates before nodding, his multicoloured gaze flickering away for a moment like he was trying to find the right words.

“I didn’t…I didn’t think it would be like this.”

Anthony frowns. “Like what?”

Tucker’s eyes are darker than Anthony remembers when he looks back up, like there’s too much swirling behind them. “All of it,” he says. “The way…we’re always doing this,” he gestures vaguely between them, “like it’s just one thing. But it’s not.”

Anthony’s heart skips a beat. He opens his mouth to say something, but his voice catches, like there’s a net in his throat trapping him beneath the surface, preventing him from seeing the sunlight above the waves. This is different—the way Tucker is speaking to him isn’t the same as before. It’s not a joke, it’s not a game, not a challenge. It’s not even a whispered confession that slipped out before Tucker noticed—there is frustration in his tone, like he doesn’t quite know what to do with it. Like he expects Anthony to.

And Anthony isn’t ready for that. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he manages, voice coming out harsher than he intended.

Tucker steps in closer, his presence overwhelming. “You know exactly what I mean.”

And, damn it, he does.

Anthony could feel it in the way his pulse quickened, the way his body responded to the tension between them. They’ve been dancing around this for years now, and this isn’t even the first time either of them has said it out loud, but this time…there’s more weight to it. And, for the first time, Anthony feels like he can’t hide from it—like he can’t just shove the man up against a wall and kiss away whatever he wants to forget.

Tucker’s eyes flicker down to Anthony’s lips for only a moment before he pulls back slightly, shaking his head. “I should go,” he says quietly, like he’s trying to convince himself more than he’s trying to convince Anthony.

He nods, but something in Anthony doesn’t quite want him to leave. Not yet. Still, he agrees, “Yeah, okay.”

But, as the drummer turns, he can’t stop himself from calling out to him.

The smaller man stops, but he doesn’t turn around, a muffled, “What?” coming from the other side of him, causing a lump to form in Anthony’s throat. He’s never been good at admitting what’s underneath all the anger, the frustration. He’s never been good at showing weakness, but something about Tucker brings out the vulnerability in him—like he’s lost the ability to keep his guard up around him. Anthony can’t hold back anymore as the words slip from his mouth, a painful confession: “I don’t want to keep pretending, either.”

It's like a weight has been lifted from his chest, but, quickly, it’s replaced with something else—something much heavier. Tucker’s eyes are unreadable as he finally turns, but there’s a flicker of something akin to relief in them before he speaks again.

His voice is hoarse as he asks, “You mean that?”

Anthony nods. “I do.”

For a long moment, there is nothing but the sounds of the tour around then—people laughing, the distant roar of the crowd.

The silence between them feels like it’s stretching, becoming heavier with each passing second. It almost catches Anthony off guard as Tucker steps closer, closing the gap faster than he expects, as the drummer says, “Come on, let’s get out of here.”

They end up in the back lounge of the Thursday bus, boxes of merch piled around them. Tucker is sitting by the window, watching the lights of the festival grounds twinkle in the near distance, as Anthony sits on the edge of the couch. They’ve been avoiding this too long, pretending it’s nothing, pretending there’s no weight between them, but in the quiet of the lounge, hidden away from everyone, it becomes impossible to ignore.

Finally, breaking the silence that’s been stretching in the tension between them, Tucker asks, “What the hell are we doing?”

Anthony exhales slowly. “I don’t know, but I can’t just…” His voice is rough as he continues, “I can’t keep pretending I don’t feel this.” It’s eating away at him, like a parasite, draining him of all rational thought and energy for years. And he’s tired.

Tucker nods. “I can’t either. But I don’t…I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Maybe we don’t fix it,” Anthony says, shifting closer to Tucker’s end of the couch. “Maybe,” he begins, a hopefulness creeping into his tone that causes the drummer’s eyes to flicker to him, open and raw and wanting, as Anthony finishes, “Maybe it isn’t broken.” The words hover in the space between them, and for a moment, it feels as though they’re both on the edge of something huge—something that they can’t take back. But, as quickly as the moment comes, it passes, Tucker sighing as he runs a hand through his cropped hair.

“I’m not ready to fuck this up again,” he says quietly. The fear, the doubt, the way Tucker’s voice trembles—it hits Anthony like a punch to the gut.

“You won’t.”

It comes out softer than he expected, and when Tucker looks back up at him, his eyes are filled with something unspoken. It’s only a moment before he leans in closer, closing the gap, lips finding Anthony’s in a kiss so slow that it feels like the drummer might break if Anthony opens his mouth—and like Tucker, too, is afraid to break something. But that’s when Anthony notices it—when he feels the cracks in the other man’s wall.

The cracks in his own wall. They’re there between them, and neither of them can hide anymore.

Chapter Text

It’s the kind of heat that sticks to one’s skin, that makes Anthony feel like his walking through a heavy, suffocating blanket.

The tour drags on, but the days blur into one long rush of sound, sweat, and exhaustion. Yet, whenever he sees the drummer, whether it be in passing at a show or eyes meeting across the lot while Anthony mans his table, there’s something else there. It’s not the anger, the sharp, biting insults that used to fly between them. It’s a quiet tension, simmering under the surface—something that almost feels like it could be too good, if the two of them weren’t both so damn afraid of what would happen should they let themselves feel it.

They’ve started avoiding each other again, but it’s different this time. The avoidance feels more like a choice than a necessity—it’s not an attempt to hide from a glare or a sharp string of words, but rather the truth.

The problem is that the truth is getting even harder to ignore.

Anthony doesn’t expect to see him as he slips backstage, sneaking out from where he had been watching the last set of the night from the crowd.

He’s leaning against a stack of equipment, face in the shadow of the trailer, only the faint glow of the stage lights illuminating his features. Anthony almost walks right past him, the instinct to avoid him so ingrained into his body, when he freezes. Because Tucker is watching him, and the look on his face is…not something Anthony can even describe. The drummer continues to watch him for a long beat before he steps forward.

“You don’t have to walk away from me.”

He could lie. He could say it’s not a big deal. But they both know better. So, instead, what slips out is, “I’m not walking away.”

Tucker’s face softens a little. “Then why are you acting like you’re avoiding me?”

Anthony hesitates, because he doesn’t know how to explain it. He thought that the avoidance had been mutual—that Tucker had been avoiding him, too. “Maybe because I don’t know how to deal with whatever the hell this is anymore,” he explains.

There’s a pause. Tucker’s eyes narrow, like he’s trying to determine whether Anthony is telling the truth, and Anthony can see the walls coming back up—the cracks that had broken through plastered over, repaired, but still imperfect. Like they’ve always done before. But, when he says, “Yeah, I know what you mean,” there’s something else there—something Anthony can’t put into words. Maybe it’s guilt. Maybe it’s the frustration of not knowing what to fix whatever is broken between them, because it is broken, regardless of what they said before.

Whatever it is, it’s making the both of them tense. “Why don’t we…keep things simple?” he finds himself suggesting, the words coming out before he can stop them. “We don’t need to make it more than it is.”

The drummer watches him for a long moment. Anthony can’t quite tell what he’s thinking, and it makes him nervous.

Finally, Tucker nods. “Yeah, sure. Simple. Fine.”

The word fine hangs between them, weighed down with all the unspoken things threatening to claw their way to the surface. Neither of them moves as they stand there, close but not close enough, watching one another, scrutinizing each other’s gaze—looking for the punchline, guarding themselves against the moment when the other goes, “Sike!” The silence stretches too long, and for a moment, Anthony almost turns away.

Tucker shifts again, running a hand through his hair. “I’m not gonna pretend it’s nothing,” he warns, voice barely above a whisper. Anthony swallows as the rough, “Neither am I,” comes out, the words cementing something between them.

But there’s no follow-up. No admission. No breakthrough. Just two people standing on the precipice, pretending like they’re not about to fall.

The tension is so thick that Anthony can practically taste it.

Neither of them can make eye contact for very long anymore, and every word exchanged feels weighted, like there’s something they’re both afraid to say aloud. The small interactions have stopped feeling casual. They’ve started feeling…dangerous.

He just finished up his shift and is walking back towards his bus when he catches sight of Tucker standing near the entrance, talking to someone else. The moment he sees him, Anthony’s stomach tightens, a familiar ache settling in his chest. The drummer’s gaze flicks over in Anthony’s direction, and the both of them freeze for a heartbeat before Tucker quickly looks away. He doesn’t say anything, like he’s hoping Anthony will let it go, won’t press—and it pisses Anthony off, though he doesn’t know why.

He's not sure what he’s thinking as he approaches Tucker, but what comes out of his mouth, voice low, is, “You’re not gonna pretend it’s fine, are you?”

Tucker glances at him, eyes narrowing. “What’s your problem?”

“My problem?” Anthony scoffs, probably louder than he means to, as he steps in even closer. “My problem is that you think we’re just gonna keep doing this dance, pretending nothing’s changed. But it has, and you know it.”

Tucker’s jaw tightens as he crosses his arms. “Maybe nothing has for me.”

“Bullshit.”

It comes out harsh, Anthony is practically spitting on the drummer in his rage, and he regrets it almost immediately. But, as Tucker’s eyes darken and the other man retorts, “If it’s such a problem for you, maybe you should walk away,” he knows can’t take it back.

He freezes, the sharpness of the drummer’s words hitting harder than he expected. Anthony’s voice is small as he says, “I never said it was a problem.” He’s whispering, perhaps too low for even himself to hear, “But maybe I don’t know what to do with it.”  They had spoken about this, they both said they were done pretending, and Anthony didn’t know how to go back to…whatever this was. It wasn’t his normal, anymore.

Tucker’s expression is unreadable, mouth opening as if he wants to say something, but then he closes it again, letting the silence settle once more.

And, suddenly, he’s gone, leaving Anthony standing there.

The heat of the moment lingers like an electrical current, ready to explode any moment.

It’s almost like déjà-vu. Anthony is walking back to his bus yet again, his mind spinning with everything he said and everything he didn’t, when, suddenly, a familiar voice pops up out of nowhere, stopping him in his tracks.

“You still pissed at me?” Tucker asks.

“I’m not pissed.” The bite in his tone suggests otherwise, but, hey, it wasn’t like the drummer wasn’t fond of pretending.

But it’s with a softness that Tucker responds, “Good, because I’m not pissed at you, either.” It’s enough that Anthony wants to turn and face him, to apologize, but he can’t. There’s too much between them now, and if he looks at Tucker, everything will spill out.

“I’ll see you around, then,” he says, not quite sure if he means it or if he’s just trying to end the conversation before either of them says something they’ll regret. And when Tucker, too, neglects to respond, Anthony wonders if perhaps he’s also running—if he’s also afraid to take the next step. Logically, Anthony knows that’s probably the most reasonable explanation—after all, they had been doing this for so long. Surely one of them could have pushed things along, but they were both teetering that edge, afraid of what would happen if they fell over.

And Anthony clung to his lifeboat as he continued onto his bus.

The rain had cooled the pavement, but not his skin. The air still felt heavy, like it was waiting for something to break, and Anthony had felt that weight mirrored in his chest all day. He’s caught glimpses of Tucker, and each glance landed like a bruise.

Lingering, aching, too long.

They didn’t speak. Not until after dark. It was always after dark. They found each other behind unmarked trailers, where the hum of generators filled the air and the shadows gave them cover. They would look at one another, silence stretching into beats, before suddenly Tucker’s hands were on Anthony’s shirt, Anthony’s fingers dancing along Tucker’s belt, mouths finding one another like they were starved for it.

The cold metal against his spine made him gasp as Tucker pushed Anthony against the trailer, kissing him like he was furious.

Like he needed to erase everything that wasn’t Anthony.

It didn’t stay frantic. Somewhere in the mess of tongues and moans, the pace slowed. Anthony’s hands began to shake where he gripped Tucker’s shoulders as the drummer’s mouth moved from lips to jaw to throat—not biting this time, not leaving bruises just to prove he can. No, this was softer, like Tucker was trying to memorize him. And when Anthony looked at him – really looked at him – he saw something raw in those eyes, something he wasn’t sure he had ever really even seen before—not onstage, not in a fight, not in bed.

It was vulnerability, but a different kind of vulnerability. Something…personal.

The air was knocked from his lungs as he breathed Tucker’s name like a confession. The other man didn’t speak, but he slid his fingers into Anthony’s hair and kissed him again—slow, like the silence was too big and he didn’t trust himself not to fill it with the wrong words. It was later, as they lay in the bus lounge again, legs tangled together, shirts riding up, fingers stroking skin in lazy patterns, that Anthony broke the silence.

“I don’t hate you.”

“Yeah,” Tucker responded, continuing to look at the ceiling as though he was afraid of Anthony seeing the truth in his eyes, “I kinda figured.”

“I think maybe I did, once,” he admitted, because he had, in the beginning. Tucker was a cocky, infuriating little thing who never failed to get under his skin, and he wanted nothing more than to drown the man in a pool of his own sweat. “But not for a long time.”

He didn’t expect the drummer to respond. Tucker didn’t, at first. But when he said, “I used to tell myself I was trying to fuck the fight out of you,” Anthony can’t help but laugh—a genuine, hearty laugh, devoid of any bite or sarcasm. He even gives a, “Me too,” because, yeah, it was easier to convince himself of that than acknowledge what was really going through his head—or his chest. Silence dropped on them again as their laughs faded into steady breaths. It stretched, but this time it wasn’t uncomfortable.

Then, Tucker turned to face him, elbow tucked under his head, eyes meeting Anthony’s in the dim blue glow of a streetlight out the window. “I don’t know what this is,” he says quietly, “but it’s not just fucking.”

Anthony’s throat closed up a little. “Yeah,” he replied, nodding.

“We should…” He trailed off, searching the taller man’s face before continuing, “We should try. Whatever this is.”

It was the closest either of them had come to admitting what had been burning beneath the surface all these years. Anthony swallowed, barely managing to breathe out an, “Okay,” before Tucker sat up, dragging a hand through his hair. “No one can know,” he added. “Not yet. This stays between us.” Anthony doesn’t even flinch as he agrees, mouth twitching instead, like he wanted to smile but couldn’t quite let himself.

Tucker laid back down, pulling the blanket up over both their chests, and rested his hand by Anthony’s side. It wasn’t possessive. Just…present. A reminder that he was there—at least until Anthony would have to escape back to his own bus.

Neither of them said anything else for the night.

But something had changed, and no matter how quiet they tried to keep it, the truth had already begun to speak.

It’s different now.

Not in the way it looks—at least, not to anyone else. To everyone else on the tour, Tucker and Anthony still cross insults across catering tables, albeit it with less bite and more affection in their tone—like friends, if nothing else.

They still roll eyes at one another during load-in, still pass each other with that practiced indifference. But beneath that, everything’s shifted.

Because now, when Tucker’s shoulder brushes Anthony’s in passing, it’s on purpose.

Because now, when Anthony sneaks onto the Thursday bus at night, it’s not just lust. It’s quiet laughter into pillows, whispered confessions neither of them is ready to say aloud anywhere else. It’s falling asleep with Tucker’s hand resting against his hip, forehead pressed to the back of Anthony’s neck like he forgot to build the wall back up. During the day, they pretend—they were practiced at pretend, after all. They don’t sit next to each other at lunch, Anthony doesn’t linger too long near Thursday’s bus. But they both look.

They both look constantly.

Once, Anthony is watching Thursday soundcheck from the edge of the lot, pretending to count shirts for inventory, when Tucker catches his eye as he spins a drumstick between his fingers. He gives this barely-there smirk, just for a second, before focusing on his kit.

Nobody notices besides Anthony, and Anthony can feel that smirk for the rest of the day.

Another time, Anthony is walking back from the showers – a brief, blessed moment on tour where they were able to set up showers, even if they weren’t exactly even motel quality – with a towel over his shoulder, hair still wet, as he passes Tucker on the way to the bus. The drummer doesn’t touch him – he’s too careful for that, out here in the open – but his gaze drops, and Anthony knows exactly what he’s thinking.

That night, they don’t even make it to a bunk before Tucker’s mouth is on his, fingers tugging at his waistband as they stumble into a dark corner behind some rigging crates. “Fuck, I missed this,” the drummer pants into his throat.

“You saw me six hours ago,” Anthony says with amusement in his tone.

Tucker grins against his skin. “Still true.”

But even now, with how this is growing between them, they don’t call it anything. They don’t talk about after tour. They just…live in the moment.

And when people ask why they still argue like it’s their job, Anthony rolls his eyes, gives them a snarky comment, and deflects. Because the truth is that it’s easier to let people think it’s still hate. It’s easier than explaining that he sleeps better with Tucker beside him, why he knows the exact shape of the scar on the drummer’s right hip, why he remembers the way Tucker sighs when he’s trying not to fall asleep right after—trying to savour every moment before Anthony slips out and they keep their secret one more night.

There’s a moment one night, tucked away behind a gear truck after load-out, where they’re both standing too close, breathless and flushed from whatever excuse they made to sneak off together. Tucker’s hand lingers on Anthony’s wrist.

“I think about you all the time,” he murmurs, voice low as though he’s afraid of his own words.

Anthony’s heart stutters. “I know.”

Tucker lets go. Neither of them leans in for another kiss. Anthony pulls up his hood, gives the drummer one last look that says more than either of them can handle, and vanishes into the crowd of roadies and musicians like nothing ever happened.

But, for the rest of the night, he feels Tucker’s fingers on his wrist.

Chapter Text

He used to be able to hide in the noise. That was the trick—just stay busy, keep moving, don’t linger, don’t feel. But, now, it’s the quiet moments – the ones he used to be good at pretending to ignore – where the truth gets louder.

Like when Tucker brushes his pinky under the table at the lunch tent, and his whole body goes taut like it’s the most dangerous kind of contact.

Or when he wakes up before Anthony one night in his bunk and just stays there, arm around the taller man’s waist, breath warm against Anthony’s neck—not ready to start anything, but not ready to let go just yet.

They both act like they’re not counting down to the end of tour. They still throw barbs across festival grounds like they don’t care, still walk ten feet apart when the bands and crew are headed to the same dive bar at the end of the day, before everyone hits the road again in a parade of vehicles. But when Tucker’s laugh carries over the crowd, it hits Anthony square in the ribs—and when their eyes meet across a merch tent, Tucker’s gaze lingers a moment too long, soft in a way that no one else is supposed to see.

And people are starting to see.

“You two still beefing?” a merch buddy, another dude who had been with the tour about as long as Anthony, asks, motioning to where Tucker’s drumming on the side of the stage, shirt clinging to his back with sweat. “Or is that just your version of foreplay?”

Anthony scoffs. “Please, he’d break out in hives if I looked at him too long.”

The guy laughs, buys it. But Anthony’s skin is buzzing, and that night, he finds Tucker behind the bus, arms crossed, eyes unreadable.

“Someone said something,” Anthony mutters.

Tucker nods. “We’re getting reckless,” he says, and Anthony tries not to feel wrecked by that. He shrugs, pretending it doesn’t matter, while the fear that Tucker might suggest they stop pounds through his head as he asks, “What do you wanna do about it?”

For a minute, Tucker doesn’t answer. He just looks at Anthony—really looks, with the kind of gaze that pins him in place and makes his mouth go dry. Then, he exhales, and steps closer. “I don’t want to stop,” the drummer confesses, quiet. Sure. Like he’s absolutely certain about what he wants, and, for once, he’s putting words to the thought. Anthony is just as certain as he says, almost just as quiet, “Me too.”

And Tucker’s lips are on his before the words even settle between them—hot and insistent, like he’s trying to voice everything he can’t say aloud.

Later, when they’re pressed together in the far back of a trailer, skin to skin in the dark, Tucker’s breath is hoarse and soft against his ear, determined and forceful as he promises, “If they find out, I’ll deal with it.”

Anthony blinks. “You mean—”

“I’m not ready to make it a thing,” Tucker cuts in, not harshly. “I just…I’m done pretending. At least with you.”

It floors Anthony to hear it—all of it, every word, every confession, the honest fire burning in the drummer’s eyes. He doesn’t know what to say, so he buries his face in Tucker’s shoulder and just holds onto him a little tighter. And, when Tucker kisses him again, there’s a sweetness there that there wasn’t before—a comfort, and something else. Something Anthony is not sure he recognizes, but he doesn’t want it to stop—he wants to curl into the feeling of it and let it hold him, protect him from whatever might tear them apart.

They fall asleep like that, if only for a bit—this isn’t even their trailer, and it’s a matter of time before someone else finds them there, but in the meantime, they can afford a few minutes of twisted limbs and warm, gentle breaths against skin.

And, somehow, it feels much safer than it should.

They’ve gotten just a little too comfortable. That’s the problem.

The touches that used to be fleeting – hidden behind tents or in the dark between buses – now linger just a moment too long. They sit beside one another at catering sometimes now, and Anthony lets his knee rest against the other man’s under the table. They lean in too close when they speak in low, hushed voices, heads ducked like conspirators. And maybe nobody’s outright said anything, but Anthony can feel it.

It's in the way people pause when they see the two of them together, the way conversations shift whenever they enter the room, the way Geoff gives Tucker a look—not accusing, just curious, but sharp in a way that suggest he’s connecting the dots.

It all comes to a head one night after their set, when Anthony joins Tucker once more in the back of the Thursday bus.

They aren’t even doing anything. Not really.

They’re sitting side by side, Tucker in his trusty tour hoodie, Anthony in a shirt that is obviously borrowed from the smaller man, some shitty movie playing on the small screen above the bunks. They’re sitting close – perhaps too close – but it’s not even about the touching—it’s just easy, comfortable, safe, for once. And that’s exactly why it’s dangerous—because they’re so invested in one another’s warmth that they don’t hear the door open. Not until they notice a tension falling over the room, a breathless pause somewhere across from them.

In the doorway stands Geoff, one brow raised, arms crossed loosely. He doesn’t say anything right away, but Tucker shifts immediately, sitting up straighter, clearing his throat as though that might make it less obvious how relaxed he just was.

Geoff tilts his head. “You two good?”

The smirk that rises to Tucker’s face is too quick, too fake. “Yeah,” he confirms. “Why?”

The vocalist shrugs. “Just wondering,” he says. “You two have been a little…friendly lately,” he adds, causing Anthony’s heart to stutter.

Tucker scoffs and laughs, as though Geoff just made the most outrageous comment, and protests, “We’re not friends, dude. Come on.” It would hurt Anthony – it did, a bit – if he wasn’t so frightened about what might happen next—the prospect of Tucker deciding that this is too much and he doesn’t want to risk any more of these near misses. Geoff, however, doesn’t laugh, and holds his gaze a moment longer before turning to Anthony.

“You saying here tonight?” he asks, casually, as though Anthony staying on their bus was not only a normal thing, but a welcome one. Anthony is not one to tempt fate, though, and shakes his head quickly. “Nah,” he says. “Just killing time.”

Geoff nods like he doesn’t believe him. “Right. Alright.”

The silence that follows his departure is awful. Neither of them moves for a full minute, unsure of whether it was even safe, before Tucker finally sighs and presses the heels of his palms to his eyes. “Fuck,” he mutters.

“I told you someone would notice,” Anthony says, doing his best not to make it sound like an accusation.

“We were careful.”

“Yeah,” he agrees. “Were.” There’s a sharp edge in his voice, not because he’s angry at Tucker, but because he’s scared—because it’s too late to put it back in the box. Because if one person had noticed, how many others were there? And if people were talking, how long would it be before Anthony found himself alone in a bunk again, halfway across the parking lot from where he was beginning to feel at home? Oh, that was a scary thought all on its own—the idea that the Thursday bus, that Tucker, had somehow become home.

It was almost with great relief to Anthony that the drummer drops his head in hands and looks at him intently. “I’m not letting this go,” he promises.

Anthony nods. “I know.” He thinks he does, anyway.

“I’m just…I’m not ready for it to be public,” Tucker explains. “I’m not ready for what that means.”

Anthony nods again, because he gets it—he’s scared too. But when Tucker reaches for his hand, just barely brushing his fingers, Anthony lets him take it—lets him hold it for a second, even if it means hiding in a different bus tonight. Like every night, despite that he wished he could, just for one night, stay. Even if it means more lies tomorrow. Because someone might know, but neither of them is ready to name it yet.

He leans his head on Tucker’s shoulder, savouring the closeness before he has to slip out, avoid the rest of the smaller man’s bandmates as they return from…wherever they were. Surely, if Geoff had already stumbled upon them, the others weren’t far behind.

So, the secret lives on, fragile and flickering.

Just like the way Tucker looks at Anthony when no one else is watching.

The last few nights of the tour were spent avoiding the subject like it’s a loaded weapon. Not that they’d had much time to talk—when he’s not tearing down tents or sorting merch, Anthony is sneaking glances in Tucker’s direction, catching those barely-there smiles, those subtle touches, those quiet stolen moments where Tucker pulls him behind a trailer just to press a hand to his waist and a kiss to his neck. It’s different now—it’s not just a routine, it’s not just something they fall into like memory. It’s intentional. It’s tender.

It's terrifying.

And, when they wake up tangled together in his bunk the morning of the final show, there’s a weight in the air that neither of them can ignore.

Tucker is quiet for a while, one hand resting over Anthony’s ribs like it belongs there. Anthony keeps his eyes closed, pretending it doesn’t feel like something ending. But the fact that he’s here is promise of that—their last night, no losses between them.

“Flight’s tomorrow morning,” the drummer says eventually, voice low, rough with sleep. The only thing Anthony can say is, “Yeah,” because he doesn’t have anything else. They don’t talk about what happens next, because for four years, there’s never been a next—there’s only summer, only Warped Tour. And, when the tour comes to an end, the inevitable conclusion is that, they too, do—that’s always been the rule.

But, this time, neither of them moves.

Load-out is quieter that night. There’s this unspoken agreement between them not to draw attention – no lingering touches, no wandering off together indiscriminately – but, even so, their eyes can’t help finding one another.

Tucker catches his hand while helping Anthony push a case into a trailer. Just a quick squeeze. Nothing anyone would clock unless they were really looking.

“Come with me,” he says.

It’s not a joke. Not a smirk. Not the usual bullshit way he tries to pretend he doesn’t mean things.

Anthony practically freezes as he realizes the weight of the words. “Tucker—” he begins, only to be immediately cut off as the drummer rushes to explain, “Not, like, forever.” His eyes dart toward the edge of the parking lot where people were starting to gather. “Just…come visit. A week. A couple of days.” The look in the drummer’s eyes is so raw, open, desperate as he pleads with Anthony, adding, “Anything.” He’s never seen Tucker look so…honest, even in the rare moments where he was giving words to…whatever this was.

His stomach flips. This wasn’t part of the pattern. “You think we could get away with that?” Anthony asks, voice quieter now. “We’re not just merch and band anymore. If we start showing up in the same city when there’s no tour, people will know.”

Tucker looks at him like he already knows. “They probably already do.”

That hits Anthony right in the chest.

“I’m not ready to tell them,” the drummer adds quickly, softer now. “I’m not,” he repeats. “But I don’t want to have to wait until next summer to see you again.” And, damn, but Anthony swallows around the lump in his throat, because neither does he.

So, he says the only thing that feels real in the moment: “Okay.” The speed at which Tucker’s eyes snap to his could break records, and Anthony suddenly finds himself feeling confident, like he actually knows what he’s doing. “I’ll figure something out,” he tells him, as though it’s just that easy. “I’ll come to you. I’ll be careful.” And, for the first time, Tucker lets his expression break in front of Anthony—no smirk, no defense, no swagger.

Just soft relief, deep and aching, as he echoes, “Okay.”

Anthony gives his hand a squeeze once before slipping away—someone is shouting his name, and they both know the moment is over.

But later, when the buses are lined up and everyone is hugging goodbye, Anthony catches his eye across the lot. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to, because they know this isn’t over. They both want something more now, even if they can’t name it yet.

And, this time, they’re not going to wait.

Chapter Text

The apartment looks too clean. Tucker’s not used to seeing it so clean, not unless Geoff’s coming over, or his mom—someone who gives him shit for leaving laundry on the couch or takeout containers on the kitchen counter.

But right now, it’s spotless. Because he’s coming.

He told himself not to care, not to make it a thing. It’s just a visit—a few days to take the edge off the ache that settled into his chest the minute the buses pulled away from that last parking lot. But, the truth is, he’s been thinking about it since the second he said goodbye—since the second he let Anthony walk off without doing something stupid, like pulling him into his arms and kissing him where everyone could see.

He checks the time again. Anthony had texted almost an hour ago, something that they actually do now: Almost there.

Tucker has been pacing since.

It’s ridiculous. They’ve shared cramped bunks, filthy motel bathrooms, the occasional gas station snack run at three in the morning when their buses happened to stop at the same gas station at the same time. They’ve fucked in trailers, kissed behind equipment cases, curled up on couches and roof racks and parking lot concrete. But this is his apartment—his real life. This is not summer, and there is no crowd to disappear into when things go sideways. That only causes Tucker to pace more, faster, wearing a hole into his living room carpet.

He hasn’t told anyone that Anthony is coming. He doesn’t know how he would. It’s not like he can casually drop a, “Hey, the guy I’ve been secretly hooking up with – and maybe accidentally falling for – is coming to stay for a few days.”

So, he hasn’t said anything—just marks off the days in his head like someone counting down to Christmas, and pretending not to care about presents.

The knock finally comes. One soft, quick rap on the door.

Tucker freezes. For a moment, he thinks about not answering, like if he just stays still, maybe the weight in his chest will shift into something lighter. But it won’t, and he knows that, so it’s with a deep breath that he opens the door.

And Anthony is standing right there, worn hoodie, overnight bag slung over one shoulder. The same tired but smirking look he’s seen a hundred times across venues and parking lots—but, this time, it’s for him. No tour, no excuses. Just Anthony, standing in his apartment building, looking somehow even better than the last time Tucker saw him—which was a hard feat to accomplish, because Anthony always looked absolutely stunning.

Tucker’s mouth opens and closes. He doesn’t know what he’s meant to say, but it dies in his throat.

Anthony gives him a look—a real one, wide-eyed, maybe a little unsure, but there’s warmth under it. “Well?” he asks. “Are you gonna let me in?”

Tucker exhales a laugh, steps aside. “Yeah,” he says, voice low and familiar to Anthony, “Come in.” And when the door shuts behind them, the taller man’s bag dropping to the floor, the both of them finally close enough to touch—

There’s no hesitation as Tucker’s lips find Anthony’s. No pretense. Just need. He’s wanted this since the moment the other man said goodbye, stepped onto his bus and disappeared into the horizon, a trail of metaphorical shirts leading Tucker to where he felt he belonged—since the moment Anthony said, “Okay,” and agreed to come. And now he was here, in Tucker’s apartment, looking every bit as radiant as when Tucker’s eyes find him across the grass, smiling across his merch table as the drummer makes his way to the stage.

And, for the first time, it doesn’t feel like summer.

It feels like something more.

The kiss doesn’t stay soft for long. It deepens too fast, mouths open, hands already moving like they’ve both been starved for this. Maybe they have.

They stumble backwards until Anthony’s back hits a wall, Tucker’s fingers gripping the hem of his hoodie like he’s afraid Anthony will vanish if he lets go. But, when he pulls back, it’s not to take things further—it’s to gaze upon the bright blue eyes looking right back at him. Anthony is breathing hard, eyes locked on his, and it’s the first time they’ve stood in front of each other without a tour bus in earshot, someone potentially walking in.

The silence around them is full of permission as Tucker’s thumb brushes under Anthony’s jaw. “You good?” he asks.

Anthony nods. “Yeah, I just…”

He doesn’t finish his sentence. He doesn’t need to, because Tucker is already nodding in return, as though he feels the exact same way—already leaning back in, hands pressed against Anthony’s stomach, guiding him toward the bedroom.

“This is weird,” Anthony says, not quite meaning for the words to slip out.

Laying together in Tucker’s bed, clothes in a heap on the floor, breath still evening out, there was no rush. No fear of someone rounding a corner and finding the two of them together. No pretense that this was just another hookup.

Tucker is on his side, one arm tucked under his head as he lazily traces patterns along Anthony’s spine. He glances down as he asks, “Bad weird?”

Anthony shrugs. “Different weird.”

The laugh that escapes Tucker is a relief as he confirms, “Yeah, it is.” Anthony shifts to face him, taking in the contented look on the other man’s face. “No soundchecks,” he responds. “No catering trays. No loading docks.”

“No hiding.”

The both of them pause. He looks at Tucker to find the drummer watching him. “Is that what this is now?” Anthony asks tentatively, voice low, as if he was confessing his entire life’s story within the one question. After years of ducking behind stages, slipping into bunks, biting one another’s lip to keep quiet – after the agreement that if they pursue this, whatever this is, they must keep it a secret – was Tucker suggesting that, maybe, they would…stop? That, maybe, they would let other people in? “No more hiding?”

Tucker’s lips press together and, for a moment, Anthony thinks he might dodge the question. Then, quietly, he says, “I don’t want to hide from you,” as though it was the most honest thing he had ever said. Maybe it was. “But I’m not ready for anyone else to know.”

He nods. That’s just about what Anthony expected. It still stings a little, but not enough to pull away—not enough to lose everything.

“I’m not asking for all of it,” Anthony tells him. “Only you. Outside of tour.”

The drummer reaches over, throwing his arm around the taller man, letting his fingers rest below his ribcage like he had that one morning on the bus—the last morning before everything changed between them forever. “You’ve got me.”

Anthony lets the words settle. He wants to believe them.

He wakes to the smell of coffee and the sound of Tucker in the kitchen, barefoot in a hoodie and flannel pants, messing with the machine like it’s actively trying to piss him off. Anthony leans in the doorway, arms crossed, watching him frown at the buttons.

“I don’t think it’s a war crime to ask for a cup,” he says, causing the drummer to spin around. Tucker’s eyes light up when he sees him.

“No promises on taste, but it’s hot.”

Anthony walks over and takes the mug from his hand, and Tucker doesn’t move away—just lets Anthony step into his space, lets Anthony’s arm brush against his, lets the quiet wrap around them both as though they had done this a hundred times. It’s different—it’s domestic. It’s the exact thing Anthony was afraid of so many summers in a row, pushing his feelings down into the bottom of his gut, pretending it didn’t matter. But, right now, he doesn’t feel afraid—he feels safe, warm, comfortable. Like this is where he’s meant to be.

It feels like…home.

And that’s the most dangerous part of it all.

Half-dressed, tangled on the couch under a blanket that’s more for plausible deniability than warmth, a horror movie playing in the background—some early 2000s nonsense with fake blood and worse acting, but it’s not like they’re actually watching, They’re pressed together, Tucker’s thigh between Anthony’s, his arm over the taller man’s chest, his mouth buried behind Anthony’s ear like he’s trying to breathe him in.

It's safe here. Lazy and quiet and…dangerous.

Because, when there’s a knock on the door, it feels like a gunshot.

Tucker jolts upright as Anthony freezes. “Fuck,” the drummer whispers, already having jumped to his feet, already tugging his hoodie down and smoothing his hair like that’ll undo the evidence of Anthony on his mouth, his neck.

Another knock, this one louder. Anthony scrambles off the couch, grabs his shirt, his heart in his throat. Tucker shoots him a glance, equal parts panic and apology, as he strides to the door and cracks it open just enough to look through. Anthon recognized the familiar, “Hey,” on the other end, but it does little to prevent his stomach from flipping upside down. “Didn’t know you were back from your mom’s yet,” he hears Geoff say. “Figured I’d swing by. Got your sticks in my trunk—you left them after the last session.”

“Oh, uh, yeah. Cool,” the drummer stutters, stepping out into the hallway blocking the doorway with his body.

Anthony hovers by the bathrooms, barefoot and silent, clutching his half-buttoned shirt, pulse pounding in his ears. He can hear them talk—small stuff, nothing alarm. But Tucker’s voice is a little too high, a little too normal, and that’s always been his tell—he talks faster when he’s hiding something, and the fact that Anthony has managed to pick up on these little quirks causes something else to bubble in his gut.

Eventually, footsteps retreat down the hallway. The door closes. Anthony doesn’t move. Tucker returns a moment later, locking it behind him.

“He didn’t see you.”

Anthony lets out a relieved breath. “That was close.”

“Too close,” Tucker agrees, raking a hand through his hair. “Shit. I didn’t even think anyone would come by.” They had spent days in their own little bubble, having forgotten that the world outside the apartment was still moving around them.

“Are you sure he didn’t—?” Anthony begins, but Tucker cuts him off instantly, an almost harsh, “He didn’t.” But the drummer doesn’t sound certain—no, he sounds rattled. Like the wall they have both carefully built just got a crack in it, and he’s not sure how wide it runs…and whether everything is about to come crumbling down. Anthony feels something halfway between relief and shame as he stands in the middle of the apartment, both glad that their cover wasn’t blown, but disappointed, perhaps, that he’s something to hide.

Tucker steps toward him, stopping a few feet short. “You okay?” he asks, quiet now.

Anthony nods. There’s a long pause, and he can feel the comfort from earlier bleeding out of the room, the movie frozen and forgotten.

“Maybe I should stay in a hotel next time,” he says, eyes down. Tucker’s in front of him before he can even process what’s going through his head, fingers on Anthony’s chin, tipping his face back up. “Hey, no, don’t—”

“I’m not saying I don’t want to be here,” he rushes. “I just…don’t wanna be something you have to hide in a panic anytime someone knocks.” He thought he had been okay with the secret element of whatever this was, because Anthony, too, wasn’t ready for what real would be like between them. But, now that he was here, now that he knew how it felt to fall asleep in Tucker’s arms, to wake up to fresh coffee and gentle kisses…

The expression on the drummer’s face breaks, guilt carving across it like a scar. “You’re not. I’m not hiding you. I just…I don’t know how to…”

He gets it. He does.

Tucker touches his cheek, thumb tracing over skin. “I don’t want you anywhere else but here.”

Anthony nods. He even mostly believes him, and the moment settles again—but something has shifted, a thread pulled loose. Because someone almost saw. And that means someone could. Even as they curl up back on the couch, Tucker pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth, Anthony could feel the clock ticking, pressing them with the knowledge that they are running out of time—not only of this visit, this little temporary home that they have built together, but of pretending that the rest of the world won’t find out.

Chapter Text

The moment Tucker had opened the door, Geoff knew that something was off.

Not the usual kind of off, like being exhausted or hungover or distracted by band shit. No, this was something else—something small and twitchy and tight. His hoodie was rumpled, his hair a mess like he’d only just shoved his fingers through it in a panic. He’d answered the door like Geoff was the fucking FBI or something. And Geoff might have ignored that, might have chalked it up to a bad day or a weird hangover.

Except it wasn’t the first time.

In fact, it was the latest in a long string of strange.

It started in summer 2002, though the vocalist hadn’t realized it at the time. There was this merch guy for one of the other bands—this sharp-tongued smartass who got under Tucker’s skin fast. He remembered watching the two of them go at it near the buses that first week, full of snarls and spitfire and heat. It wasn’t flirtation, not then—it was exactly what one might find if they looked up loathing in the dictionary.

Tucker would bitch about him constantly, and, for a while, Geoff couldn’t even blame him—he didn’t know the guy, after all. “He hates this guy,” he commented to Tom once, laughing. “Like, deeply, passionately hates him.”

He hadn’t thought much of it. Not until the following summer. That was where something changed.

The hated was still there, sure—still barbed and snarly, but there were gaps in the venom now. Lingering stares when they thought no one was looking. A silence in Tucker’s voice whenever Anthony’s name came up.

And then…nothing.

Cold.

They stopped talking halfway through the tour—not just stopped talking but avoided one another altogether, shortly after that night at the motel. Like whatever had been happening had hit a wall and both had come away bruised. And Tucker was miserable. Geoff knew that he’d said some shit—mean things, things the drummer couldn’t exactly take back. He hadn’t exactly understood it at the time, why Tucker would suddenly feel so miserable over someone he hated so much. But every attempt to explain came out too quick, too rehearsed.

Like Tucker had been trying to convince himself more than anyone else.

The next year was when Geoff had started to become suspicious. The fighting was back, but it was different now—less fire, more smoke. Anthony would spit something at Tucker and the drummer would give it right back, but there was a softness around the edges of it, like the fury was just a camouflage. Like Tucker wanted to be around him. Geoff didn’t say anything—not much, anyway. He just watched.

And by 2005, it was undeniable.

They would disappear together for hours, return flushed and disheveled, pretending like nobody had even noticed they were gone. But Geoff noticed.

He saw the way Tucker looked across the lot, the way Anthony didn’t flinch anymore when the drummer got close. There was still a bite in their interactions, still an undeniable heat, but it was a different kind of heat now—something threaded with ache.

And now? Tucker was awkward. He’d been dodging phone calls, making some excuse that he was leaving for a bit to visit his mom, which Geoff knew wasn’t true because Linda had called him at one point and asked him to remind Tucker to pick up his phone. Geoff didn’t call him on it, because clearly Tucker had some shit to work through—but when Geoff stopped by to drop off some gear and the drummer looked like he had been caught in bed with a ghost, well, it was a little harder to ignore that something was going on.

There had been movement inside the apartment. Geoff was sure of it. But Tucker stepped out into the hallway before he could catch sight of anything, stood there with his heart in his throat, talking too fast, too bright.

He hadn’t pushed. He hadn’t needed to.

Sanding in the parking lot with his trunk still open, spare sticks still in his hand, Geoff leaned against his car and finally said the thing out loud:

“Oh, shit.”

He didn’t know the details. He didn’t know how far back it truly went, when it all really began, or even how deep. But he had seen enough to know what it was now: Tucker Rule was in love with someone he wasn’t supposed to be in love with.

And Geoff had a pretty good guess of exactly who was hiding in his apartment.

He doesn’t start with accusations. He waits until they’re a beer and a half in, some low-volume record spinning in the background, Tucker just loose enough not to see it coming when Geoff asks, “You wanna tell me what’s going on with you?”

Tucker doesn’t look up from the label he’s been peeling off his bottle. “What do you mean?”

“You’ve been weird since the tour ended,” Geoff explained. “Hell, since before that. And the other day? You acted like I had caught you mid-crime.”

“I was surprised, man. Thought I had more time to clean up,” the drummer says, a scoff under the words like Geoff was being ridiculous. Perhaps it was that implication that had him pressing further, “That why there were two coffee cups on your living room table?”

Tucker stiffens.

Geoff gives it a beat. “You know, I’ve been trying to piece this shit together for years. Every summer, you get weird around the same guy—and, look, I can’t blame you for that, because we’re all kinda weird during Warped. It comes with the territory when we’re all lacking sleep and caffeine and getting heatstroke every second day,” he reasons, “but you kept disappearing with him, coming back like someone flipped you inside out.”

He notices how the drummer pales, and it actually kind of excites Geoff to know he’s got it right. That’s why he continues still to push, asking, “He’s in town right now, isn’t he?” because there’s no other possible explanation.

Tucker finally looks at him, expression sharp, defensive, as he says, “It’s not like that.”

Geoff raises an eyebrow. “Then what is it like?”

The drummer sets the bottle down. “It’s just sex,” he explains, like it’s the simplest thing in the world, as though sex was just anything. Geoff doesn’t blink. “He’s…he’s not someone I’m with,” Tucker continues. “It’s not serious. It’s not anything. It’s just this thing that kind of happens, okay?” Too fast now, too rushed, beads of sweat forming on the other man’s brow. “It’s been happening for a while, that’s how we blow off steam, and I don’t…I don’t need you turning it into some kind of love story or something.”

Geoff stares at him a moment. Then, “You’re really gonna sit there and say he means nothing to you? That this has all been…what?”

“I’ve had better,” Tucker says, voice flat. “It’s not about feelings. It’s about convenience.”

The silence that follows is razor-sharp, tension so thick they would need a knife to cut through it. Finally, Geoff exhales, shakes his head. “Wow,” he mutters. “You must think I’m an idiot.” Tucker doesn’t reply, so the vocalist stands. “You know what? Lie to yourself all you want, but don’t expect me to believe you don’t care. Because I’ve seen you look at him, Tuck. No one stares like that at someone they don’t give a shit about.”

He walks out of the room. Tucker doesn’t stop him.

Anthony could tell something was off from the moment Tucker walked through the door. The drummer doesn’t meet his eyes, doesn’t reach for him like he usually did—a new normal that had somehow become routine to them.

He just sits on the edge of his bed, arms braced on the side of his knees, chewing the inside of his cheek like he’s fighting something back.

Anthony closes the door and takes a seat beside him. “What happened?”

“Geoff asked questions,” he mutters.

His heart skips. He doesn’t even have to ask the question, the curious, “And?” fighting its way through his chest, before the drummer continues, “I told him it wasn’t anything. That it was just sex. That I’ve had better.”

Anthony’s breath catches, and it must be loud enough for the drummer to hear, because Tucker turns to face him, sees the way Anthony freezes, the way the taller man’s jaw clenches. “Is that how you really feel?” he asks, because he has to know, even if he’s afraid of what he might hear. The way Tucker doesn’t answer, doesn’t say yes but doesn’t say no, either, hangs between them—it’s just silence, and that’s even worse. Anthony can already feel the salt stinging at the corners of his eyes as the lump forms in his throat.

He stands. “I’m not gonna stay where I’m not wanted.”

“It’s not—”

“No,” Anthony cuts him off. “You don’t get to walk that back,” he says, grabbing his bag, hands shaking as he doesn’t even look at the shirts he’s shoving into it from the floor. “Not this time.” He needs to go, he needs to get away from there. And, yet, he keeps going, “You know, I’ve wasted four years hoping that you’d…I don’t know, see me. Want me. But if all this has been is sex to you? Then you can keep your privacy.”

The drummer remains silent as he watches Anthony zip his bag, pulls a hoodie that wasn’t his over his head. “I’m done being your secret,” the taller man concludes, turning away just in time to hide the first tear that escaped its duct.

Tucker doesn’t stop him as he walks out. Doesn’t chase him. And that silence? It’s a new kind of heartbreak. One that sounds like goodbye.

Chapter Text

Tucker spends his days in a haze of rehearsal spaces and the familiar pulse of tour preparation. He’s more present at shows, more present in the quiet moments with his band. But when he’s alone, he’s restless. Like something is missing.

It’s like his skin’s too tight, the space inside his head too loud.

He keeps thinking of the way Anthony walked out, his words echoing in the back of Tucker’s mind: “I’m done being your secret.”

It’s a sting that hasn’t faded, and each day it gets sharper. Every time he reaches for his phone, every time he pulls up Anthony’s number, he hesitates, fingers frozen above the buttons. He wants to call—wants to, but the pride is heavier than the longing. He’s too proud to admit that he’s the one who fucked up, so he waits. For what, he doesn’t know—but every moment without Anthony is a cold distance, gnawing at him.

He’s back home now—no more late nights in Tucker’s bed, no more fumbling for reasons to stay when every part of him is screaming to leave.

But even as he tries to fill his days with work, with distractions, he can’t get rid of the emptiness. His absence feels like a constant hum in the back of Anthony’s mind, a reminder of everything he thought was possible, but couldn’t hold onto. Sometimes he wakes up, still expecting to see the drummer on the pillow beside him, feel the arm around him tightening as he feels Anthony rousing to consciousness, begging him to stay in bed a few minutes longer—or Tucker, getting up, waking Anthony not with his movement but the smell of coffee.

He’s going through the motions, and maybe – just maybe – he’s even tried to let himself be okay with it.

Tried to stop thinking about him.

Tried to stop thinking about the way Tucker’s fingers felt on his skin, the way he kissed him like Anthony was the only thing worth breathing for.

He scrolls past Tucker’s name in his contacts, each time feeling the ache of what’s left unsaid. Each time, Anthony wonders if Tucker is thinking about him, too. But he can’t make the first move—not this time. Not after everything that went down.

The holidays come, and with them, the weight of absence. It’s not as though they had ever spent the holidays together, but the cold feels so much heavier when Tucker is still clinging onto the memory of someone else’s warmth.

Thursday plays a handful of shows in December. Every night it’s the same routine: practice, show, go home. He lies in bed afterwards, staring at the ceiling, wondering if Anthony is thinking about him too—wondering if he’s the only one dying to make things right, or if maybe, Anthony has moved on. Wondering if maybe he’s the one who’s too proud to admit that he’s the one who fucked everything up.

He tries to stay distracted. He tries to throw himself into the music, into the road.

But the sound of his drumsticks tapping against his kit is no longer as comforting as it used to be. Every time his hands drum the beat, his mind drifts to Anthony—his face, his voice, his words. The way he trembled as he walked out the door.

Another new year. Another familiar ache.

Anthony tries to be productive. He takes up new hobbies. He meets new people. But there’s a hollow space inside that he doesn’t know how to fill.

Because it’s him.

It’s the way his touch used to feel like home, the way his laugh would make Anthony forget about everything else. He tries not to think of the summer ahead, how he doesn’t even know yet if he’s returning for Warped Tour again this year—he’s not sure whether he even wants to return this year, given everything that has happened in the months since. Perhaps, for once, he could use a summer without chaos, without sweat clinging to his back as he perches over a table, pretending he’s more than a glorified retail worker.

And, of course, if he does return, he’ll have to face him. The thought of seeing him again is like a tightrope he’s walking in his own heart—knowing it’ll either break, or they’ll fall right back into the same mess of words left unsaid, touches that linger a little too long.

The months stretch on, and still, neither of them has mustered up the courage to reach out.

Thursday is gearing up for another leg of their tour, the same grind, the same faces. But there’s an ever-growing sense of something missing, a hole in the back of Tucker’s chest. It’s not something he’s used to—he’s always been fine alone, always managed without needing something more. But this…this is different. He’s scared—of how he feels, and of how much Anthony means to him now. But he won’t let himself admit it.

Not yet, anyway.

He tries to shake it off, to get on with his life, to keep living like it never happened. But his thoughts keep returning to the same place. He wonders if he’ll ever stop loving Anthony—or if he’ll ever even admit that it is, in fact, love.

Tucker’s standing near the side of the stage, waiting for the rest of the band to finish throwing their picks and hand off their instruments. The noise of the crowd is deafening, but his mind is elsewhere, as it has been almost every night.

Geoff approaches him quietly, leaning against the wall, arms folded. His expression is serious, but there’s something softer in his eyes now, like he’s given up pretending he doesn’t know what’s wrong with Tucker—and is sympathetic. Something’s shifted in the dynamic between them, and Geoff isn’t going to let it slide. So, it’s with a casual tone, but a knowing look on his face, that he says, “You’ve been off, man.”

Tucker doesn’t look up from the floor. His fingers tap rhythmically on the side of his drumsticks, a nervous habit. “I’m fine,” he mutters, voice tight.

“No, you’re not.”

He glances at Geoff, jaw clenched, as the vocalist continues, “I’ve watched you, Tuck. I’ve been watching as you pull away from everything, everyone. You don’t even look like you enjoy drumming anymore. What the hell happened?”

He’s been avoiding this question in every form for months, burying it beneath his pride, beneath his anger at how things turned out. But Geoff knows him too well—Tucker has never been very good at hiding things from Geoff. So, he doesn’t even need to say anything to prompt the vocalist to ask, “Why won’t you say anything about it?” because of course Geoff knows that there is an it to say something about—an it that has him trapped in a hell of his own making. And, oh, “Why won’t you just admit it?”

That kind of it, too—one that comes loaded with a confession.

He turns away, leaning his back against the wall, gaze fixed on the floor as the weight of the last few months bear down on him. His thoughts are loud – louder, even, than the crowd still dispersing in the pit – and they’re all Anthony. Everything that happened, and everything that didn’t happen—and if he says anything now, it becomes real. And if it’s real, Tucker has to face the truth that Anthony is gone.

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” he mutters, a bitter edge creeping into his voice.

Geoff sighs, rubbing the back of his neck. He’s quiet for a moment, letting the silence sit between them, before speaking again.

“I want you to stop lying to yourself,” he says, softly but with a touch of frustration seeping in. “Stop pretending like it didn’t mean anything,” as if it was that easy, as if Tucker hadn’t wanted to do that for years. “Stop pretending you don’t miss him.”

“I’m not lying to myself,” he snaps. “It’s not like that. It’s just—”

“You can’t even say it,” the vocalist interrupts, voice sharper now. “You can’t even call it what it was. And you know why? Because if you do, it’s real. And if it’s real, you have to admit that you fucked up. I know you, Tuck,” he says, and the drummer can feel Geoff’s eyes burning through his back as his friend continues, “and you don’t want to face the fact that it might be over, that maybe you fucked up for good. So, you pretend it’s just sex. You pretend it was nothing, but it wasn’t, Tuck. It was something. And you know it.”

Tucker’s chest tightens at the accusation. It’s all true. He knows it’s true. He’s not ready to say the words, to admit how much he fucked up, how badly he hurt Anthony, how it’s all his fault, how it stings to see the pained look flashing in his memory.

“I didn’t…” he starts, the words catching in his throat.

“You didn’t what?” Geoff asks, not even waiting for him to finish. “You didn’t love him? You didn’t care? Then why the hell did you look at him like he was the only thing worth looking at? Why did you let him get so close?”

Tucker swallows, eyes darting to the stage as security begins to usher out the stragglers in the crowd, almost loud enough to drown out his heartbeat.

“I fucked up, okay?” he admits quietly. “I don’t know how to fix it. I don’t know if I can.”

Geoff’s gaze softens, but if Tucker were to look up at him, he would find the disappointment still hanging in the other man’s eyes. “You have to admit it first, man. You have to say it out loud. Otherwise, you’re just gonna keep pretending it didn’t matter—that he didn’t matter.” Tucker’s mind is spiraling, his thoughts a tangle of confusion and regret. He wants to scream, he wants to argue, as Geoff continues, “That’s not fair to anyone.”

There’s a moment of silence, just breaths between them, before the vocalist speaks once more. “I just don’t want you to end up regretting this. Because if you keep pretending it wasn’t real, then you’ll be the one left with nothing.”

And with that, Geoff stands, leaving Tucker with only his sticks and his thoughts before security asks him, too, to get moving.

Later that night, when he’s alone in his hotel room, Tucker stares at his phone. His thumb hovers over the button, Anthony’s name illuminating the small screen, and the silence feels deafening. He knows he should reach out. He knows he should try to fix this. Everything Geoff said to him echoed in his head, twisting with the image of Anthony’s smile, the sound of Anthony’s laugh, the absolute blue of Anthony’s eyes—he had spent more nights than he would ever admit just thinking about the brightness of the other man’s gaze.

But the fear of rejection, the fear of facing the consequences of what he’s done, holds him back.

He puts his phone down.

Chapter Text

The first day of Warped Tour is buzzing with the same chaotic energy, the same rush of nostalgia that fills the air every summer.

The crowds are back, the stages set, and the bands are already getting into their grooves.

But for Anthony, it’s different this year. The excitement is gone. The thrill of seeing familiar faces, the late nights, the chaos—it’s all muffled by the weight of everything left unresolved from the fall. Frankly, he’s not sure why he’s even here.

Distraction, he supposes. He spent months pretending he was fine, that the pain of leaving Tucker’s apartment – his heart still raw from the last conversation, the silence – was something he could walk away from, but he can’t. Every moment spent apart has only made the hurt deeper. The walls he’s built around himself aren’t just to keep Tucker out—they’re to protect Anthony from the fact that he still cares, that he still wants him.

Even though he promised himself he wouldn’t.

When he steps off the bus, the familiar sounds of the crowd fade as his gaze instinctively scans the area. Anthony doesn’t want to look for him, doesn’t want to seek him out, but his eyes betray him as they flash toward where Thursday is loading in behind their stage.

And there he is.

Tucker’s unmistakable presence causes Anthony’s chest to tighten. He looks different—distant, like the months apart have hardened him, too.

He wants to look away, but he can’t. The way the drummer’s eyes flicker around, the way his jaw tightens whenever anyone gets too close to his kit—it’s all too familiar, like nothing has changed. It’s as though he was walking into the same Warped Tour five years earlier, watching this spitfire of a musician shout insults at the people that wouldn’t leave him alone—roadies, dudes from other bands, mouthy merch boys. Tucker’s older now, though, and Anthony doesn’t miss the lines around his face, as though he’s tired.

He turns away quickly, pretending he wasn’t looking.

Pretending he didn’t feel the sting of everything still hanging like a bomb between them.

Tucker is trying to focus. He’s running through his drum kit, pacing through the set in his mind, his fingers tapping on the edge of a nearby table.

But all he can think about is him.

It’s been months since he last saw Anthony – almost a year, at this point – and, yet, everything about this moment feels like it’s been building up to the same tension that’s always been there—the distance, the silence, the way everything between them has been left unfinished. Every time he catches a glimpse of Anthony backstage, he feels his heart skip—he’s not the same, as though Anthony shut down the part of himself that Tucker knew.

The last time he saw the taller man – when Anthony left his apartment, heart clenching with each step away from him – Tucker realized just how much he had lost. But now, standing here in the same space, it feels like the worst kind of déjà-vu.

He’s here, but he’s still out of reach.

And the weight of everything left unsaid between them is heavier than ever.

His hands flex at his sides, and he forces himself to look away, focusing on the drumsticks in his hands, the string of tension that pull at his chest, the numbness he’s wrapped himself in for all this time. But it’s no use.

The sun is setting, dipping behind the horizon, and Anthony is trying to find his band’s merch booth when the moment comes.

He rounds a corner, bumps into someone. The impact causes him to freeze for a second, heart leaping into his throat—Anthony tries to pull back, to avoid contact, to disappear before Tucker even realizes it’s him, but it’s too late. His gaze locks with Anthony’s, eyes unreadable, guarded—just like Anthony might have expected. But there’s something else there, too—something he hadn't seen before. Tucker looks different—not just older, but quieter, like he’s spent far too long carrying something far too heavy.

For a split second, the world around them falls away, and it’s just the two of them. Anthony can almost taste the distance between them in that moment, the silence that becomes their new language. And then Tucker speaks, a simple, “Hey.”

His voice sounds rough, like he hasn’t used it in too long. He shoves his hands in his pockets, a nervous tick Anthony is all too familiar with.

“Hey,” he replies, voice colder than he intended.

Neither of them moves. Neither of them speaks. It’s the same damn pause—the one they’ve been holding onto for months, both afraid to break the silence between them, both afraid to admit what’s burning underneath it all. It’s Tucker who breaks the silence again, stating, “I didn’t think I’d see you again,” as he looks at Anthony fully, eyes scanning his face like he’s trying to figure out what’s changed since last time.

Anthony tilts his head slightly, resisting the urge to soften. “Yeah, well, we’re both here now.”

Tucker takes a step closer, just enough to close the gap between them, but still a breath away. There’s something almost pleading in his eyes, something Anthony had seen in him before but never dared to acknowledge.

“You’re—” Tucker begins before stopping himself, shaking his head.

Anthony raises an eyebrow. “What?”

“I don’t know,” the drummer admits as he exhales, frustrated, eyes dropping to the ground. “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Anthony shrugs, heart beating a little too fast for comfort. “You don’t have to say anything,” is what comes out of his mouth, but he’d be lying if he said he didn’t wish Tucker would say something—anything to make this less awkward as a long silence stretches between them, the both of them standing there in the fading sunlight, just staring at one another. Tucker glances over his shoulder, as though he’s going to speak again—but he doesn’t. Instead, he pulls back, rubbing the back of his neck—another nervous tick.

“Yeah, okay,” he mutters, voice barely audible, as though it wasn’t Anthony he was speaking to.

And then, just like that, he’s gone.

The days have been a blur of heat, music, and relentless tension. The same old routine plays out during the day—backstage jabs and sarcastic remarks, hollow smiles, the pretend indifference that they both wear like armour.

He’s grown accustomed to the back and forth, the way the words snap and cut and bounce off each other like nothing more than a trivial game.

But, beneath it all, the air is thick with something else.

It’s late. The festival grounds are emptying out, the crowd thinning. There’s a sense of calm settling over everything, a rare moment of peace amidst the chaos. Anthony’s sitting on the edge of a stage, one that had been cleared some time ago already, trying to catch his breath from all the screaming he had done from the crowd—what made him a great Warped Tour goon was the fact that he was, in fact, a fan of the music.

Most of it, anyway.

Every part of him feels so alive in a way that’s almost painful. And, of course, he’s not alone.

Tucker is nearby, talking to a couple of his own bandmates, but his eyes are constantly darting over to where Anthony sits, like he can’t help himself. It’s subtle, but he can feel it, and it makes everything inside him twinge in a way that’s impossible to ignore.

At some point, the conversation between the musicians appears to drop off, and he’s moving in Anthony’s direction, his footsteps quite deliberate. The way his body moves – so sure, so confident – shouldn’t be enough to send a jolt of electricity crackling through Anthony’s whole being, but it does. He can’t help himself from sliding to his feet and meeting him halfway, the both of them coming to a pause with still some distance between them. The tension is immediate – thick, tangible – as they stare at one another.

“What do you want, Tucker?” The words come out sharper than Anthony means them, but he’s tired of this—the silence, the games, the pretending.

“You,” he mutters, voice low, almost too raw.

The vulnerability in it shocks Anthony, because that was not what he expected to hear. He takes a step back, trying to hide the way his heart stuttered, but it’s too late—Tucker’s already seen him, and before Anthony can react, before he can stop himself, the drummer’s hands are already on him. It’s a sudden, urgent movement, Tucker’s fingers gripping his wrist and pulling Anthony toward him. There’s no hesitation, no words exchanged.

Just need.

Anthony’s breath hitches as Tucker’s lips crash against his, and the kiss is like fire—desperate, frantic, as if they’ve been starving for this, for each other, for too long. The heat between them ignites, burns hotter than ever before.

There’s no words. No pretending. Just the pounding of hearts, the frantic push and pull of bodies, the growl of frustration that escapes from deep within Anthony as he tugs at the smaller man’s clothes, desperate to feel him, to get closer, to end the endless ache that’s been building since the moment he walked out the door. “You’re an asshole,” he manages to breathe out, even as he pulls Tucker closer, because he needed to say it. His hands dive into the drummer’s sweaty hair, dragging him deeper into the kiss.

“Yeah, well, you’re a fucking idiot,” he retorts, voice hoarse against Anthony’s lips. But there’s no malice in it anymore.

There’s no venom—only the rawness of everything that’s been left unsaid.

The frustration. The longing. The fucking need.

It’s rough, messy. But it’s also something more. The bite of his touch, the way Tucker’s lips trail down Anthony’s neck, the desperate way the drummer’s body presses against him—it’s not about sex, it’s about finally feeling something real after months of pretending.

And when it’s over, the both of them are left panting, breathless against one another, bodies still pressed close. It’s quieter now, the only sound the hum of buses as they prepare for another night on the road in the constant commute that was touring. The weight of everything hangs heavy between them, but there’s something different now. They both know they can’t just go back to what it was, but neither of them is ready to admit it.

Tucker’s hand brushes against Anthony’s back, a soft touch that lingers, as if he’s testing the waters, unsure of what this means now. Anthony is silent a moment, his chest still tight from everything they just shared.

Finally, he breaks the silence.

“This changes nothing,” Anthony says, the words coming out weaker than he meant them to be. But it’s the only thing he can cling to right now.

The drummer doesn’t answer right away, instead staring at the man before him a long moment, searching Anthony’s eyes for…something. And, in that moment, Anthony sees it—the same thing that he is too afraid to admit, the understanding that this was different, that maybe – just maybe – things were no longer as simple as they once were. But Tucker doesn’t say anything. He just gives that crooked smile, the same infuriating grin that Anthony used to rage about, the one that makes his heart race…and walks away.

Another night, another day wrapped up. The event grounds are darkening, the crowd has already dispersed, but the various members of various bands’ crews are still milling about, packing up equipment, chatting amongst themselves.

Anthony’s been running on adrenaline all day, pushing down the growing sense of need that tightens his chest every time he sees Tucker.

He’s been avoiding Anthony again, as much as he can.

But there’s only so much space to hide, and when Anthony finally finds himself alone between buses, it’s Tucker who appears—suddenly, silently, as though he’s been waiting for him. The moment their eyes meet, there’s no going back—the air between them is thick and charged, like an electrical current or the static before a storm. “You know,” Anthony forces out, trying and failing to sound casual, “this is getting ridiculous.”

Tucker steps closer, expression unreadable, but Anthony can see it in his eyes—the frustration, the confusion, the ache. He’s been holding it in too, just like Anthony. “Yeah,” the drummer agrees, quietly. “It is.”

There’s no teasing, no sarcasm in his tone. It’s raw, stripped of its usual defenses.

It makes Anthony’s stomach turn.

Before he can stop himself, Anthony steps forward, pulling Tucker toward him with a sense of urgency that feels few.

Their mouths meet in a clash of heat and need, no words necessary. It’s messy, frantic, but it’s more than that—Anthony can feel it in the way Tucker’s body moves against him, the way his hands grip Anthony’s like he’s afraid the taller man might slip away. Anthony kisses him harder, deeper, his hands roaming over the drummer’s chest, his arms, pulling him closer still. Tucker lets out a frustrated groan against his mouth, his fingers tangling in Anthony’s hair, attempting to pull him even closer—as if there was any more space between them.

And then it happens.

The both of them are so lost in the moment, so desperate to fill the void between each other, that Anthony forgets to hold back. In the heat of the kiss, the words slip out before either of them can stop them: “I fucking love you.”

It’s out before he can even process it. The words burn on his tongue, and suddenly everything is too real. He pulls away, eyes wide, chest heaving in shock and fear. Tucker’s face falls into an expression of disbelief, and for a moment, neither of them knows what to do. Finally, the drummer stumbles back, eyes equally as wide, breath ragged, and his voice is low, hoarse, raw, vulnerable as he asks, “What did you just fucking say?”

Anthony can’t even look at him. The words hang in the air like a heavy weight, suffocating the space between them. “I…I didn’t mean it.”

But he did.

“I don’t know why I said that.” The panic in his voice makes it less convincing than he intends, and Tucker doesn’t move, jaw clenched tight, eyes searching the taller man’s as though he’s trying to find a sign that this was all a mistake—an accident.

But they can both feel it—the truth that’s been hanging over them for years, buried under layers of denial, anger, and fear. The truth that never of them wanted to face. And, knowing it was the truth was probably why Anthony feels it like a slap to the face, when Tucker says, “Don’t…don’t say things like that,” the coldness in his words cutting deeper than anything he’s ever said to Anthony in the past. It hurts more than he expected it to, more than he can stand—he swallows hard and steps back, trying to regain control over the world spinning around him.

“I didn’t mean it,” he repeats, but now it’s a lie. And they both know it.

Tucker’s gaze softens, but Anthony can see it in his eyes—he’s not ready to hear the words, to deal with the consequences of real feelings.

“I can’t…we can’t…it’s too much…”

Tucker’s voice breaks as he runs his hand through his hair. The words Anthony wants to say are stuck in his throat—“What if it’s not enough? What if it’s too late? What if the box is open and we can’t close it again?” Instead, he turns away, the distance between them now practically a chasm. He can’t look at Tucker anymore, can’t let the drummer see him like this—can’t risk saying something else that he might regret.

“Yeah,” he says, voice cold as he steps forward, away from Tucker. “I know.”

Chapter Text

Tucker sits on the edge of the couch in the bus lounge, his hands gripping the edge of the seat, eyes staring blankly at the window in front of him. His mind is whirlwind of confusion and panic, and for the first time in a long while, he can’t quite shake the weight of everything that just happened. He tries to block it. He tries to keep his thoughts focused on the show, the music, the usual chaos that makes up the blur of the tour.

But it’s impossible. The words echo in his mind, over and over.

“I fucking love you.”

He hadn’t meant for it to happen. He hadn’t meant to hear it, let alone feel it. The moment the words left Anthony’s mouth, it was like everything inside him shifted—it was supposed to be a moment of reckless passion, another stolen kiss in the dark.

Tucker hadn’t expected him to drop a bomb like that—so simple, so terrifying in its clarity. The rawness of it made his chest tighten, his breath hitch.

It’s just a kiss, he tells himself—a kiss. They don’t mean anything. He doesn’t mean anything.

But then the panic settles in, creeping in from the edges of his mind—and, suddenly, he’s aware of how wrong that feels. Because he knows better. And, deep down, he knows exactly what that meant—he knows what it was between them.

But he doesn’t know how to deal with it. How could he, when he’s never let himself admit anything when it comes to Anthony? Tucker had spent so long building up the walls, feeding the lies, pretending that whatever this was between them was nothing more than sex, just two people who couldn’t stop fucking. It wasn’t real—it couldn’t be. But that’s where the problem lies, of course—it feels real, more real than anything he’s ever felt. More real than anything else in his life. And that scares the absolute shit out of him.

He runs a hand over his face, exhaling sharply. He should have said something, anything, but he didn’t. He couldn’t.

The last thing he wants to do is make it worse. He wants to push it all down, shove it back into the boxes he’s constructed for it…but then he thinks about how Anthony’s lips felt against his, how Anthony’s hands touched him like he was something worth wanting. He remembers the way the other man pulled him closer, desperate, like he needed Tucker just as badly as the drummer needed him. He sees the blue in Anthony’s eyes.

Tucker clenches his fists at his side. This wasn’t supposed to happen. For years, he told himself that all he wanted was an easy fuck, the no-strings attached moments of release. The hatred, the tension—it had always been a way to burn off some of the chaos in his head.

But now, that’s not enough. He can feel it in his bones. The connection is too strong, too fucking powerful. And that terrifies him.

He leans back against the couch, squeezing his eyes shut.

He can’t ignore it anymore—the way his chest tightens when he thinks about him, the way he aches for him in a way that feels like need. Tucker had spent so long denying it, suppressing it, but the truth is clear now. He can’t escape it, he can’t hide from the fact that he wants Anthony in a way that goes far beyond a casual fuck. But admitting that would mean tearing down everything he’s built up, everything he’s running from.

It would mean letting go of control, giving in to something he doesn’t know how to handle.

He can’t do that. He won’t.

But then he wonders, as he runs a hand through his hair, why it feels like it’s too late to turn back—why it feels like he can’t push this away.

His mind is a mess of contradictions. He’s angry, frustrated, terrified—but, most of all, he’s longing. Tucker can’t bring himself to say it yet, but he knows one thing—he may be terrified of what’s happening between them, but he’s afraid of losing it.

He exhales slowly, trying to steady himself. That was the hardest part—knowing that even though he wants to push Anthony away, deep down he’s never been more afraid of walking away from him. As much as he wants the words to go back to being unsaid, he’s afraid of Anthony not meaning them. And, as terrified as he is of how real this is all becoming, he’s even more frightened of the prospect of pretending—of going back to the way things were, when none of it mattered. Or, so he told himself.

But Tucker is determined to keep up the walls—it’s the only way he knows how to protect himself.

Even if it’s killing him from the inside.

Anthony’s heart is racing as he paces, trying to shake off the weight of the conversation that didn’t happen, but should have. The absence of words between them feels like a thousand unsaid things, and it’s eating him alive.

He wants to scream, to say everything that’s been building up inside of him, but his throat feels tight with the uncertainty of it all.

He wants to reach out, to fix this, but the rawness of what they both almost shared – hell, what Anthony did share – scares the absolute living fuck out of him. What if it was too late? What if it was all a mistake? What if Tucker was already, in some way, gone?

But neither of them is brave enough to confront it.

Not yet.

The bus is buzzing with the usual late-night chaos—people moving through the space, packing gear, chatting about the last set, the usual stuff.

But Tucker’s barely aware of any of it. He had been restless all day, his mind still spinning with everything that’s happened over the past few weeks, the weight of the words that slipped out in the heat of the moment: “I fucking love you.”

He knows he can’t keep it bottled up anymore. He’s a mess, and he’s not sure who he’s supposed to talk to. Not Geoff—he already knows something is off. The last thing Tucker wants is to deal with that conversation. He needs someone who doesn’t have all the pieces, someone who won’t ask too many questions or demand answers he can’t give—which is how he finds himself sliding up next to Steve in the small corner of the bus.

Steve’s leaning against the window, his big headphones on, scrutinizing something on the screen of his laptop with a furrowed brow.

He doesn’t notice Tucker at first, and that’s exactly what Tucker needs—a moment to breathe.

Tucker takes a deep breath, shuffling his feet a little. He knows he’s not about to spill his guts, but right now, he needs to get some of it out. “Hey, Steve?” His voice is rougher than he means it to be, and Steve pulls the headphones off, raising an eyebrow.

“Yeah, man? What’s up?”

Tucker shifts on the edge of the seat, avoiding the guitarist’s gaze. His hands are fidgeting in his lap. He doesn’t do this—he doesn’t talk about feelings. But tonight everything feels like a little too much, and his voice is quiet as he admits, “I, uhh…I don’t know, man. I’ve been feeling like…I don’t know, like I’m losing my mind a little.” It’s almost as though he’s ashamed to say it—hell, it feels pathetic to him. Tucker doesn’t get hung up on things, he’s not the guy who gets lost in his emotions—not like this, at any rate.

Steve tilts his head slightly, expression softening. “You alright? Something happen?” He doesn’t press, just gives Tucker that open, concerned look that makes him feel as though maybe he’s not quite as insane as he thinks he is right now.

“Yeah, no, I don’t know,” he mutters. “It’s just…it’s stupid. It’s nothing. I don’t know how to explain it. Just…everything’s been a little out of whack.”

Steve doesn’t ask for details, doesn’t demand a full explanation. He nods, waiting, patient.

Tucker takes a deep breath. “I’ve been…messing around, y’know? Not serious. Just…hookups,” he says, his words trailing off, as though the phrase itself is like a reminder of all the walls he’s put up. “But lately it feels like more than that,” he continues. “Like I’m not just…doing that anymore, and it’s fucking with my head.” His voice cracks slightly, and he clenches his jaw, hoping that the guitarist wouldn’t notice.

Steve nods again, his silence a comfort. It’s not the reassurance Tucker wants, exactly, but it’s the reassurance he needs right now.

“Look, I’m not—” he begins, before the other man interrupts him.

“You don’t have to explain, man,” Steve said with a small, understanding smile. “You’re not the first person to feel like this. Hell, we’re all out here trying to figure out what the hell we’re doing most of the time. Have you even seen Geoff?”

Tucker laughs bitterly, but there’s no humour in it. “Yeah, but this isn’t the kind of thing I can talk to anyone about. It’s…it’s complicated,” he says.

“Yeah, I get it,” Steve responds, relaxing a bit. “Relationships and shit? Always a mess.”

The drummer closes his eyes for a moment, letting the weight of the conversation hang between them. It’s hard to even say the word relationship, especially when he’s been pretending for years that it was anything but that. But now he’s admitting that it is—and that realization hits harder than any of the arguments or the frustration that he’s been feeling for the past few months. “I just…I don’t how to fix it,” he says quietly, a sadness creeping into his tone that he had barely let himself feel—anger, sure, but to be sad was to admit…well…

Steve leans forward slightly, a serious look in his eyes now as he looks directly at the smaller man. “You can’t fix anything until you figure out what the fuck you want first,” he tells him, as though it’s that easy, that’s all he has to do. “That’s the key, man.”

Tucker lets out a heavy sigh, rubbing his hand over his face.

“I don’t…I don’t even know where to start. I just…fuck. I thought it was all gonna be easy. But now I can’t stop thinking about him. It’s a mess.”

Steve doesn’t pry further, but there’s a knowing look in his eyes. “Just remember that whatever it is, it’s your decision,” he says. “It’s not about what anyone else thinks. It’s about what’s gonna make you feel right, even if that’s a messy fucking choice.”

Tucker stares at him for a beat, the weight of Steve’s words settling in around him.

Maybe he’s right.

Maybe Tucker needs to stop running.

Maybe it’s time to stop pretending that whatever this is, it’s just a mess that he can push away. “Thanks, man,” he mutters, voice rough. He’s not sure what he’s thanking Steve for, exactly—maybe just not making him feel like he’s losing his fucking mind.

Steve nods, offering him a small, unspoken solidarity. “Anytime, dude. Just don’t ignore it forever,” he says, but Tucker is already standing, the conversation already floating behind him in the air like a cloud. He’s not quite ready to confront this head-on just yet, but maybe – just maybe – he’s starting to realize that not dealing with it isn’t an option anymore. He takes a deep breath as he walks off the bus, into the cool night air.

He doesn’t know what’s going to happen next. But, for the first time, he feels he might actually have to choose.

And that choice might be scarier than anything he’s ever faced.

Later, he stands alone under the dim lights of the parking lot, the breeze both chilling and humid at the same time. Most of the buses have already left—they were just waiting on Andrew to return from…well, Tucker wasn’t sure where he was, but they couldn’t exactly leave without their keyboardist. He pretends he’s watching out for the blonde, but, really, he’s just gazing unfocused off into the distance, feeling the weight of his own uncertainty. He can’t fix anything until he’s ready to face it. He knows that now.

And, as he glances back to the other bus, toward the space where he knows Anthony probably is, he knows that he’s not ready just yet.

But he will be. One day.

That day doesn’t come until after the tour is over—Warped Tour, at least. It has been weeks since the last time he had been in the same space as Anthony, since that explosive moment when everything nearly came to a head.

Despite the lingering thoughts and guilt, he tried to move on. He threw himself into the rhythm of life, the band, their own tour, but every night, he found himself staring at his phone, Anthony’s name burning in the back of his mind like a brand. It was easier to pretend he didn’t feel the ache than to admit to himself that something had changed, something irrevocable, and that something had been the blue-eyed man himself.

And, now, here he is, standing before Tucker.

The night air feels thick with tension. The tour stop tonight is in Philadelphia, not far from home, but the buzz in the air is the same.

He first caught sight of Anthony while he was onstage—or, so he thought. He couldn’t be sure from that distance, and there was always the possibility he was just longing to see the other man again so badly that his brain manifested the sight. But, afterwards, as he chatted with a small crew by the door, he catches the eyes on him—and it’s undeniable as his gaze flickers over to the bar, even in that second, who was burning that hole in the back of his skull. He felt him, like a magnet—like the gravity that they had both spent months trying to escape.

He feels his smile falter, just for a second, as he looks away. His breath hitches, but there’s no avoiding it. The pull is too strong. Anthony, it appears, feels it too—Tucker watches as the other man gets up and darts to the nearest exit.

Tucker’s feet are moving before he even know where he’s going. He slows as he finds him, steps becoming more hesitant, heart pounding in his chest.

Anthony can hear him. He can tell by the way the taller man stops and stills.

There’s a second, a brief moment, where neither of them says anything. They can still pretend there’s plausible deniability—while Anthony still faces away from him, neither of them has to give voice to the unspoken words in the air between them.

Finally, Tucker speaks. “I’ve been a fucking idiot.” His tone is laced with frustration was he continues, “I’m sorry. For everything. For making you think…” He swallows heavy, knowing that once he says this, he can’t take it back. “For making you think you weren’t important to me.” Anthony still doesn’t turn, doesn’t speak, but Tucker can tell that his words have landed—there is the briefest twitch of the other man’s fingers.

Anthony, meanwhile, gulps. The confession stings, but it’s not the words—it’s the tone, the rawness in it that he’s never heard from Tucker before. It’s a crack in the armour, a break in the drummer’s carefully built walls.

And that rattles him more than he cares to admit.

He finally turns to face Tucker, his breath catching in his throat as their eyes meet. He’s standing there, looking different than the last time Anthony saw him—vulnerable, more human, and somehow more real than the cocky drummer who used to drive him crazy. But there’s still that pull—that need between them. “I don’t know if I can do this,” Anthony admits, his voice hoarse. “Not like we have before. You can’t keep doing this to me, Tucker.” His voice cracks just a bit as he adds, “I can’t keep doing this.”

Tucker takes a step forward, his eyes searching Anthony’s, his beath heavy. “I know,” he says. “I…I wasn’t thinking. I didn’t know what I was doing. But I do now.” His hand reaches for Anthony’s, and the taller man doesn’t pull away.

He lets him hold it.

Tucker swallows hard, his next words a release of the tension that’s been building for years. “I don’t want to lose you. Not like this. Not anymore.”

And, just like that, the wall crumbles. No more pretending. No more running.

Anthony lets out a shaky breath, his heart pounding as he stares at the drummer. He doesn’t have all the answers—hell, he doesn’t even know what’s going to happen tomorrow. But, right now, in this moment, it’s enough.

Because, for the first time in forever, it feels like maybe they’re not fighting each other anymore. Maybe – just maybe – they’re fighting for this—whatever this is. So, Anthony steps closer, chest tight with the weight of it all, and finally says the words that have been clawing at his throat for so long—the words he should have said a long time ago. “I don’t know what this is, Tucker. But I can’t keep pretending I don’t care.”

Tucker’s lips are on Anthony’s before he can even process the moment, a soft kiss of everything and nothing all at once.

It’s a kiss full of apologies, of regrets, of hope.

And in that moment, under the glow of Philadelphian streetlights, the last piece falls into place. Neither of them is sure what this means yet, but they both know one thing, probably the most important thing: they don’t want to walk away from it. Not now—not ever.

Chapter Text

The holiday season is upon him, the cold of winter creeping in with its crisp bite, and there’s a strange pull that tugs at Anthony, reminding him of the weight of the, somehow, consistent silence between him and Tucker.

Months have passed since Thursday had come through Philadelphia, and despite the way things had shifted – despite the soft, tentative words exchanged – it feels like nothing has truly been resolved. Anthony has barely heard from him since, with the exception of a few, half-formed messages. None of them were enough to break the distance, but they were enough to give him an ache that just wouldn’t go away.

And, now, Tucker is reaching out again.

The message is simple, nothing too extravagant—just an invitation: Can you come visit?

It’s so damn casual, but beneath the surface, Anthony can feel the weight of it. Tucker wants him to come—needs him to come. But after everything that happened – everything he still hasn’t addressed – it’s hard to jump back in without hesitation.

But maybe, Anthony believes him now. He’s seen the drummer crack open in ways that he never thought possible—Anthony has seen the pieces of him he didn’t know existed, and there’s something different in the way Tucker’s been reaching for him, even in the silence. Still, there’s that gnawing worry—the weight of the unspoken words, the ones he left hanging in the summer. He hasn’t heard Tucker say anything similar, and it leaves a bitter taste in his mouth. What if he was the only one who felt that way?

What if it was just another feeling, desperate moment for Tucker?

He texts back, not with an immediate yes, but with a tentative I’ll think about it.

The moment he steps off the train, that familiar feeling hits him again—the same pull, the same ache in his chest.

And it’s the same old Tucker waiting for him when he steps into the station, this time not with a swagger or an infuriating grin, but with something else—something softer, almost anxious as he waves Anthony over. When Anthony approaches him, Tucker’s smile is small, cautious, but sincere—the kind of smile that he hasn’t seen from the drummer in a while. And when he speaks, it’s quiet, a soft, “I didn’t think you’d actually come.”

“I said I would,” Anthony says, his words even despite that his heart was racing. He looks over Tucker carefully—he looks different. He’s wearing the same old leather jacket, the one he’s had for ages, but his posture is different—his stance, his hands. It’s nervous.

“Thanks for coming,” he adds, stepping forward and hugging him tightly—the kind of hug that makes Anthony feels he made the right choice.

When he pulls back, there’s something in Tucker’s eyes. It’s like a flicker of something deep, something that’s waiting to be said, but he’s not ready yet. Anthony isn’t going to push—he’s just glad that Tucker took this step at all.

“I’ve missed you,” the drummer says, voice rougher than usual.

Anthony swallows, his own emotions threatening to spill over. “I missed you too,” he murmurs.

For a moment, it’s like time stands still, and everything that has passed between them floods back—the pain, the longing, the frustration, the broken pieces. And then, finally, the pieces click into place. Anthony almost startles when the drummer opens his mouth again, the, “I care about you,” slipping from his lips in a low voice, but with a determination in his tone—as though he refuses to let the words go unsaid this time. “I don’t know how to do this,” he continues, eyes darting around the ceiling, “but I don’t want to lose you.”

Anthony steps forward, and this time, Tucker doesn’t hold back. He pulls Anthony into a kiss, slow and deliberate, like he’s making up for lost time for all the things he never said. It’s not a rushed, desperate kiss—it’s soft, and it tastes like a promise.

But it’s still fragile.

For the first time, Anthony lets himself believe him.

The first night takes Anthony by surprise. The plans are simple, but the thought and effort behind them are something new for the both of them.

Tucker takes him to a small, dimly lit restaurant in the city, tucked away from busy streets. It feels intimate, cozy, like it was made for conversations that matter—and when he hands Anthony the wine glass, there’s a softness in his gesture, a vulnerability that makes his chest tighten.

As the evening unfolds, Tucker talks to him in a way he never has before. There’s no need to fill the space with jokes or playful insults. He listens—he really listens. And when he talks, it’s not the usual flippant remarks or sarcastic comebacks—it’s real. He asks Anthony questions about his life, as if he’s trying to make up for all the years where he was too caught up in his own shit to really see the man behind the eyes.

Anthony finds himself falling into the rhythm of it, too. The wall that he’s kept up since the summer begins to soften with every word he speaks.

They talk about everything—the past, the tour, their frustrations, their families.

And, after dinner, Tucker drives him to a park near the outskirts of the city. The grass is covered in a blanket of snow, the air crisp and still. There’s something about it – this quit moment – that feels more intimate than anything they’ve ever shared. The city lights glimmer in the distance, but here, it’s just the two of them. They don’t move when he stops the car, no immediate need to get out. Instead, they sit in silence, the weight of everything unspoken between them hanging in the air as it always did when they were together.

Finally, Tucker speaks, his voice soft. “I’m not perfect,” he says, his eyes not quite meeting the other man’s as he stares ahead. “I don’t know how to fix all of this. But I know I don’t want to keep pretending. I don’t want to keep running from it.”

Anthony exhales slowly. He doesn’t know what happens next, but he’s starting to believe that Tucker is finally ready to fight for something real.

Tucker turns to him then, his gaze steady, and before Anthony can stop himself, he leans in.

The kiss is slow, not desperate this time, but tender.

It’s a soft promise in every movement, a shared understanding that this is different—and when he pulls back, the both of them remain there, close, not saying anything but breathing one another’s air. In that moment, Anthony realizes it’s not about trying to fix everything in one night—it’s about willingness to keep trying, to be honest, to let go of the past and see where this could go between them.

The air is thick with anticipation as they move toward each other, the space between them charged with everything they’ve both been holding back. There’s a vulnerability in the way they look at each other, and when their hands touch, it’s different.

There’s no teasing, no harshness, no flippant disregard. It’s slow, deliberate.

It’s an exploration of something that has always been there but was buried under layers of fear, frustration, and pride. There’s something raw about it now, a weight behind every caress, every movement. It’s as though their bodies are trying to communicate the things that neither of them can quite say. Tucker pulls him closer, his fingers tracing the lines of Anthony’s skin with a gentleness he never thought possible from the drummer. There’s no arrogance, no cockiness—just an intense hunger for something deeper. Something real.

Anthony feels it too—in the way his breath quickens as Tucker touches him, the way his pulse races under his fingertips, the way his body responds to Tucker’s with an urgency that’s been building over years of silence.

It’s like every moment of tension between them is exploding all at once, but it’s not just physical—it’s everything.

Anthony breaks the kiss for a moment, breaths heavy.

He catches Tucker’s gaze—his eyes are darker than usual, heavy with something he can’t quite define, but it’s clear that the drummer is just about as lost in this as Anthony. He reaches for the smaller man again, hands desperate now, needing to feel the warmth of his skin, the reassuring pressure of Tucker’s body against his. The tension between them snaps, and the rawness of everything that’s been unsaid and unacknowledged floods the room.

The moment their clothes hit the floor, there’s no going back. Every touch is urgent now, as if they both know isn’t about sex—it’s so much more.

It’s finally acknowledging what they’ve been hiding for years, even from themselves.

Anthony tells himself it’s nothing.

It’s just a visit. Just a friend – maybe more – coming to see him for his birthday. He tries to play it off like it’s casual when he tells his friends, his parents, downplaying the fact that he’s driving down not for a gig, not for studio time, but for Anthony.

He doesn’t let himself think about what that might mean.

Tucker shows up at his parents’ place with that stupid grin – not so infuriating anymore, though – and a six-pack, hair tousled as though he hopped into his car straight from bed, eyes warm with something familiar and a little dangerous. Anthony pretends not to notice the way Tucker’s eyes light up when he sees him—pretends not to melt just a little when the drummer pulls him in for a hug that lingers a second too long, a low, “Happy birthday, asshole,” whispered against his ear as Anthony laughs like it doesn’t make his heart beat faster.

They spend the day wandering around Doylestown—coffee, record stores, food, a couple drinks. Tucker lets Anthony drag him through his favourite spots, listens when he rambles about dumb local shit, even grins at the inside jokes he doesn’t totally get.

It feels normal, stupidly easy, and that’s what throws Anthony the most.

Because it’s not just this, anymore. He knows that now. And he’s not sure if that’s something to lean into…or to run from.

At dinner, Tucker insists on paying. Anthony rolls his eyes but he doesn’t stop him, and when the server brings out a cupcake with a candle, the drummer smirks at him from across the table, a teasing but warm, “Make a wish,” on his tongue. “I’m not seven,” Anthony mutters, but he does it anyway, eyes falling shut for a second longer than necessary. He wishes for clarity—or maybe courage. Or, maybe, even him, though he’d never admit that out loud.

Later, at home, the lights are low and the TV is on, but neither of them are watching. Tucker is sitting too close on the couch, thigh brushing Anthony’s, and neither of them moves away. There’s a silence between them, but not the uncomfortable kind.

Anthony turns to find Tucker already looking at him. “What?” he asks, voice soft.

Tucker shakes his head. “Nothing.”

But there’s a flicker in his eyes—Anthony feels it, a truth pressing against the surface. And when they tumble into bed together that night, it’s different—slower, more careful. There’s a reverence in the way the drummer touches him, like he knows he’s not just fucking Anthony anymore—like he hasn’t been for a while. He’s still there in the morning, too—bare-chested, hair a mess, one arm thrown across Anthony’s waist like he never meant to let go. He tells himself again that it doesn’t mean anything, but Anthony knows it’s a lie.

And, this time, he thinks that maybe Tucker would actually fight him—that he would insist that maybe this does mean something after all.

Chapter Text

This summer feels different from the moment it begins.

There’s no careful avoidance, no icy silence or wary looks, no bitter remarks spit like venom just to cover up the heat simmering under their skin.

Instead, when Tucker sees Anthony across the lot on the first day, he walks straight up to him, no hesitation. It’s not a full-on public embrace – he’s still Tucker, and Anthony’s still Anthony – but there’s a softness in the drummer’s face when he sees him.

Familiar. Intentional. His.

“Hey,” the drummer says, like they didn’t spend a whole week texting back and forth while leading up to this moment. Like he hadn’t called the night before to make sure Anthony’s flight got in okay. Like his hand wasn’t a little too comfortable where it sat on Anthony’s back, a little too easy. So, Anthony can’t help the smile that tugs at his own lips as he repeats, “Hey,” back at him—but he tries not to smile too much.

They’re not hiding, but they’re not announcing anything, either. Not because it’s shameful – not like before – but because there’s something about it that feels…sacred—like they’re not quite ready to give it to the world yet.

There are glances exchanges from across the blacktop during load-in.

Brushes of hands behind tents.

Moments backstage that hover on the edge of something visible. Enough to stir the suspicion, but not the confirmation.

But at night, in the darkness of the Thursday bus, they don’t pretend anymore. They sleep in the bunk and Tucker holds him without pretense. Anthony’s band and crew don’t know which bus he’s on, but he’s assured them that they haven’t left him behind.

Tucker kisses him like it’s not a secret, like he doesn’t care which of his bandmates hear them. There are still jokes and banter during the day, but they’re laced with affection now—not just barbs dripping in lust. But they know that tour has a way of tearing things open. Rumours fly like mosquitos in the heat—every look, every late return to the bus, every disappearance is noticed. And they’re afraid—once it’s out in the open, that thing they’ve slowly built over six chaotic summers will crack beneath the weight of being seen.

That someone else’s opinion might undo what’s finally feeling solid.

So, they steal their moments.

A hand on the small of Anthony’s back behind the stage. A too-long gaze across catering. A cigarette passed between their fingers, lips brushing in the handoff. An early morning hush behind a trailer before anyone else is awake, Anthony’s head on Tucker’s shoulder while the drummer’s fingers curl in his hair. There’s a sense of serenity that Anthony has never felt before, and he thinks that maybe Tucker feels it, too.

No declarations, no labels—not yet. But they’re not hiding—just waiting, just holding on. Just figuring out what it means to have each other.

It starts out small—a laugh, too bright, thrown toward someone who isn’t Tucker.

He’s leaning against a speaker, half-watching the conversation from across the lot. Anthony is perched on a folding chair at his merch table, legs kicked out and crossed at the ankles, grinning like he doesn’t have a care in the world. And that guy – some bassist from one of the newer bands, all charm and stupid fucking hair – is saying something that makes him laugh again. It makes Tucker’s jaw tick—he tells himself it’s fine, that Anthony is allowed to talk to other guys, allowed to laugh at dumb jokes and flirt a little and maybe—

He cuts that thought off hard. No.

Tucker looks away, pretends to focus on tuning his snare even though the tension has settled in his shoulders like a fucking weight.

Later, it happens again. Anthony is leaning in close to that same guy, a little too close, even if he’s probably just showing the taller man something on his Sidekick. Tucker can’t hear what they’re saying, and Anthony’s hand brushes the musician’s forearm like it means nothing, but it doesn’t feel like nothing to him—his stomach knots, and something sharp rises in his chest. He turns away before he can say something stupid.

By the time Anthony finds him that night – quiet, coiled tight, smoke curling from his cigarette like it’s the only thing keeping his hands steady – Tucker won’t look at him. “You good?” he asks, nudging the drummer’s arm.

Tucker shrugs, doesn’t answer right away.

“You’ve been weird all day,” Anthony continues. “Did I miss something?”

The drummer stares out across the dark parking lot, jaw clenched. “Nah,” he says, chest deflating. “Just tired.”

But when they head back to his bus later, Tucker’s fingers dip a little deeper into Anthony’s hip as he kisses him—his mouth is rougher, like he’s trying to prove something, like he’s trying to mark the other man somehow. Anthony doesn’t question it – part of him even likes it – but something in the drummer’s eyes won’t settle. It’s not until hours later, when they’re tangled up in the bunk, half-asleep and warm, that it hits him—why it bothered Tucker so much, why the idea of someone else touching Anthony made him look like he was drowning.

Tucker wants him. He wants Anthony.

And the thought of losing this – losing Anthony to someone else because he’s too afraid to admit what this really is – terrifies him more than anything.

It’s late, the sky inky and wide above the dusty lot, all hums and low laughter drifting from a handful of tens and buses. Anthony’s is parked just far enough from the Thursday bus to offer privacy, but close enough for comfort.

The air is thick with heat and the lingering sting of the long day—sweat-slick skin and frayed nerves, hearts still beating too fast. They’re in Tucker’s bunk again, where they’ve been most nights this tour, but it’s never felt quite like this. Tucker’s mouth is warm and insistent against Anthony’s, his hand splayed across the taller man’s back like Tucker’s afraid he’ll slip through his fingers. Everything he does is urgent tonight.

Anthony rakes his nails down the drummer’s spine, and Tucker groans like he’s losing his mind.

“I hate that I need you like this,” he murmurs against Anthony’s shoulder, breath heavy against his skin. “I hate that I can’t stop.”

Anthony’s heard it before, of course—both of them have said it more times than he cared to count. It’s always the prelude to the inevitable: to his hands, Anthony’s lips, bodies pressed against one another like an apology and anger and want all tied into one.

But when he presses his forehead to Tucker’s and whispers his name, something breaks. Tucker stills for a moment, eyes closed, breath catching, hands trembling. And then, it slips from the his lips, like a secret ripped from his chest:

“I love you.”

The silence that follows is deafening. Anthony freezes. So does Tucker.

And the drummer’s eyes go wide, like maybe if he doesn’t move, he can pretend he didn’t just say it—like maybe it didn’t escape in a whisper so raw that it leaves him cracked wide open, so great that it can’t just be plastered together like all the previous cracks in his walls. He pulls back an inch, but it’s too late—they’re both staring now, the air heavy between them, the words still echoing in the space where their bodies are still pressed close to one another. Another beat passes before Tucker swallows and mutters, “Shit.”

“Tucker—” Anthony begins, but the drummer cuts him off.

“I didn’t…” He runs a hand through his hair, like he could yank the moment out of existed if he tried hard enough. “I didn’t mean to…fuck.”

Anthony’s still watching him, heart in his throat, eyes wide as he reaches out—tentative, fingers light against the drummer’s cheek. “But you did,” he says softly, because while Tucker’s own response stings a bit, he can tell the other man is just scared.

Tucker doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t have to, because the way his eyes soften as they meet Anthony’s again, the way he leans into the taller man’s touch, the way he holds Anthony like he’s scared the man might vanish? That’s the answer. The words are out now—there’s no taking them back. And, for the first time since the beginning – for the first time in six years – neither of them is pretending anymore.

The days afterwards are different.

Not in any obvious way—there’s still the usual noise and chaos of Warped Tour, the same rotation of towns and stages and late-night loading docks. But, for Anthony, everything has shifted, because Tucker is avoiding him again.

Not drastically. Not enough that anyone else notices. But he can feel it in the smallest things—the way he takes a different route to his bus, the way he lingers in conversations a little too long when Anthony is nearby, the way he always seems to be looking somewhere else when Anthony spots him in a crowd. He’s never done this before, not even during the early years when all they did was spit fire at each other and fuck like enemies during the night—not even after his cruelest words, or when Tucker walked out on him.

Anthony has seen distance in him before, but not like this. This is something more.

This is fear.

He thought, after that night, after those words, that they might finally be getting somewhere. He thought that maybe – just maybe – Tucker would be willing to meet him in the middle this time. But, instead, the drummer is running again.

And what stings the most is how familiar that feels.

Because it isn’t just about what he said—it’s about what he meant. And if Tucker meant it, if it was real—then suddenly all of this carries weight. Suddenly, it’s not just stolen hours behind a bunk curtain. It’s an actual relationship. It’s vulnerability. It’s a life Tucker has never let himself imagine having, not with anyone, and especially not with Anthony—and Anthony knows, deep down, that the drummer is absolutely terrified.

Not just of being seen, not just of people knowing, but of what will happen when he lets himself feel it fully—because, maybe then, it won’t just be something he could lose. Maybe it’ll be something he can’t live without.

So, he lets him keep his distance. Because he knows it’s not because Tucker doesn’t want him. It’s because he does—so much that it’s overwhelming.

Even if it hurts to have to wait for him to yet again come to his senses.

Geoff has been watching this unfold for six goddamn years.

He’s watched the rise and fall of whatever this was between Tucker and Anthony—the jabs that were too sharp to be casual, the nights where Tucker didn’t come back to the bus until morning, the way he went quiet after certain cities, like something inside him had been torn apart.

He’d pieced together the timeline long ago. And, now, in the middle of tour – just when he thought things were finally shifting, finally becoming something – Tucker has fallen back into his old shit again—creating distance, shutting down, acting like a coward. Geoff doesn’t usually get involved – okay, maybe sometimes – because he wants Tucker to come to him on his own terms, let the drummer wrestle with it in his own time.

But this it’s not just about feelings anymore. It’s about what Tucker’s doing to himself.

And to Anthony.

So, when he catches the smaller man lingering too long outside the trailer after another set, eyes flickering to where a familiar merch guy is talking with someone across the parking lot, a sour expression on his face, Geoff has had enough.

He steps up beside Tucker, arms crossed, voice low. “You keep looking like that and people are gonna figure it out.”

Tucker startles slightly, blinking. “I don’t—”

“Don’t bullshit me, man,” Geoff sighs. “You’ve been in love with him for years. You think I haven’t noticed? You think he hasn’t?” He watches as the drummer’s jaw tenses, mouth opens with an, “It’s not—” on his tongue, but Geoff isn’t quite finished yet. “It is,” he cuts in. “You said it. I heard you, remember? You told me it was just sex once, and then you stopped talking about it altogether. And now…” Geoff heaves a sigh, “now you can’t even be around him without looking like your ribs are about to crack open.”

Tucker stays quiet, throat working, eyes fixed on the gravel. “I get it,” the vocalist continues, softer this time. “It’s scary. It’s not the life you thought you were building. But you love him, and you can’t keep acting like you don’t, man.”

“I said it and then I ran,” Tucker mutters, barely audible. “I’m doing what I always do. I ruin shit.”

Geoff shakes his head. “You didn’t ruin anything. Not yet. But you will if you keep pretending that he doesn’t mean something to you. He’s not gonna wait around forever, man.” He shakes his head like he’s been there, like he understands. “No one does.”

There’s a long silence.

Then, “What if I say it again,” Tucker says, “and this time it’s too late?”

Geoff just looks at him. “Then at least you tried,” he tells him, placing a hand on the drummer’s shoulder, “and you stop torturing yourself over it.” Tucker closes his eyes, breath shaking, not quite sure how to respond—not quite sure he can even move, but something in his posture shifts, just slightly. Like maybe, for the first time in too long, he’s considering the risk—and maybe, this time, he’s almost ready to take it.

It's late, the kind of late where the fairgrounds are quiet except for the hum of distant generators and the shuffle of someone stacking merch crates a few tens over. The lights are low, the air is warm and heavy, and Anthony is trying to find some peace in the silence.

He doesn’t expect to hear the footsteps. And he sure as hell doesn’t expect him.

“Tucker?”

The drummer looks…wrecked. Not physically – he’s still all swagger and broad chest and sharp edges on the surface – but his eyes are tired, haunted. Like he hasn’t slept in days. Like the weight of something big is pressing down on his chest and he’s just not caving under it. He doesn’t say anything for a second—just stands there like he’s trying to figure out how to even start. And then, finally, “I fucked up.”

Anthony’s throat tightens.

He wants to say, “Yeah,” wants to throw every bitter, aching thing he’s been feeling at him, but Tucker is already speaking again.

“I’ve been fucking this up since the first year. Since I pushed you against a wall behind a stage and pretending like I didn’t care.” His voice is low and hoarse, like it hurts to say the words. Maybe it does. “I didn’t want to feel anything. I didn’t want to admit that the only reason I kept coming back every year was you.” Anthony doubted that – Tucker did have his band, after all – but he said nothing as the drummer continues, “And I told myself, that it didn’t mean anything, even when it clearly did.”

Tucker takes a slow step forward. “I told myself that you didn’t mean anything, just to protect myself. And when you said it,” he goes on, quieter now, “when you told me you loved me last summer, I panicked. Because I was already in it.”

Anthony swallows hard, heart hammering against his chest.

“Because I’d already fallen,” Tucker confesses, “and hearing it out loud made it real. And if it was real…I couldn’t lose you without it breaking me.”

His voice is shaking, his hands balled into fists by his side like he doesn’t trust himself not to reach for Anthony as he continues still. “I’m in love with you,” the drummer finally says. “I don’t want to pretend anymore. I don’t want to run. I want you—not just on tour, not just when it’s easy to hide. I want to fall asleep next to you and not care who knows.” Tucker takes a deep breath before finishing, “I want a life with you.”

The silence that follows is sharp and heavy. Tucker looks like he’s preparing for rejection, for Anthony to laugh in his face and walk away. Anthony can only stare at him, every guarded part of his heart cracking open, because this…

This is the moment he has spent six long years waiting for.

It was finally here.

So, when Anthony steps toward him and presses his mouth to Tucker’s it’s not heat or urgency or hunger—it’s relief. It’s six years of build-up crashing down into a kiss so soft, so real, that it nearly has him buckling at the knees.

And when he pulls back just slightly, forehead pressed to Tucker’s, breath shared in the quiet space between, he whispers:

“I’ve been in love with you since 2004, you asshole.”

And, for the first time, Tucker doesn’t flinch. He just smiles, small and broken and full of wonder, as though nothing in the world could make him happier than Anthony in this moment. His voice is amused, warm, and excited, as he says, “Yeah. I know.”

Chapter Text

The sunlight cuts through the slats of the bunk curtain, soft and golden and warm in a way that doesn’t quite match the usual chaos of tour mornings.

It spills across Tucker’s back, his skin bare and freckled, rising and falling with each slow, sleeping breath His arm is slung over Anthony’s waist, hand resting low on his stomach like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

It is.

Anthony doesn’t move right away. He just watches the way Tucker’s face softens in his sleep, how the sharpness he always carries dulls into something boyish and vulnerable—the kind of softness no one else gets to see, not like this.

Anthony’s still wearing the drummer’s shirt from the night before—his favourite one, holes in the back and sleeves torn off since the first time he had ever seen Tucker wear it. It smells like him, faintly of sweat and detergent and the unmistakable warmth of Tucker Rule. He’s slipped it on when the heat between them finally gave way to exhaustion, when he curled into Tucker with no reason to hide, no threat of distance looming over his head.

No shame, no fear—just truth. He’s still trying to believe it’s real when the door to the lounge creaks open and voices float down the narrow hallway.

“Dude, shut up, you’re gonna wake him up—”

“Not my fault someone snuck in a groupie last night—”

“Jesus, do you ever stop?”

Footsteps thus across the floor. There’s the clatter of the coffee pit, a bag of chips rustling, laughter. Then—a pause. A beat of silence. And, finally, Geoff’s voice, dry and deliberate, states, “He’s not alone in there.”

Tucker stirs. His eyes blink open, bleary and warm, and when he sees Anthony still lying beside him – really sees him, smiling back at him like he’s real, solid – a soft smile tugs at his mouth. He presses a kiss to Anthony’s temple like it’s second nature, and there’s no panic in his face when the morning hits him. No shame as he murmurs, “You’re still here.”

Anthony nods, one hand dragging across his ribs. “I wasn’t planning on sneaking out this time,” he says, like it’s a promise.

Tucker’s response is hoarse but warm, “Good. Don’t.”

Another laugh echoes from the front of the bus. “I told you something was up!” one of the guys says – Anthony thinks it might be Tim, but he doesn’t know their voices well enough to be sure – amusement thick in his tone. “You owe me twenty bucks!”

“Wait, was that a bet?” Tucker calls out, voice rough with sleep undeniably amused.

“Obviously,” Geoff deadpans from the lounge. “But I’d consider it money well lost,” he adds, and Anthony can hear the smile from the bunk, like Geoff has known more than he lets on. He can’t help but laugh, burying his face in Tucker’s shoulder as the drummer groans and wraps his arms tighter around Anthony. It was out in the open – to some degree, at least – and the world had not imploded around them. Everything was fine—normal, even. And, for the first time in six years of secrets and heat and heartbreak and hope—

He stays. He belongs.

And the morning is exactly as it should be.